


Shattered

by slf630



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Established Relationship, Hurt Sam, M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slf630/pseuds/slf630
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never really wanted this life for his brother. Then Sam gets hurt on a hunt and Dean is forced to reevaluate things and make some hard choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

Chapter one  
  
Dean plops down into the chair across from his brother, frowning slightly when Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop. He loves having Sam back on the road with him and in the past year or so they’ve really done some good and things have settled down between them. But in the same sense, it kind of hurts that Sam’s gotten so good at hunting; that he’s starting to take to it like Dean always has.  
Sam never wanted this life; always had his sights set on bigger, better things. Things Dean couldn’t give him.  
  
Even if he’s always wanted more for Sam, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t happy as hell to have him here, to share the bad and the good; the victories and the defeats. He still feels guilty for dragging Sam back – feels even guiltier that he’s not guilty _enough_ to let him go.  
  
Sam must either finish what he’s reading or finally get tired of Dean staring because he looks up, the glow from the laptop casting his face in half-shadow, his brow furrowed. “What?”  
  
“Walk me through this one more time,” Dean says instead of spewing out all the crap circling around in his head. He’s not in the mood for Sam’s emo tonight. And he sure as shit doesn’t want to be banished to the other bed for the next foreseeable future or be cut off until he dies from blue balls. Not that Sam has ever actually done that, but Dean’s not about to take any chances where sex-with-Sam is concerned.  
  
Sam – predictably – rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair, their legs pressing together in the limited space under the table. Dean grins at him and rubs his foot up Sam’s calf. Sam tries to stay annoyed, throwing a halfheartedly pissy expression in Dean’s direction, but his lips twitching at the corners give him away.  
  
“For the fifth time,” Sam starts, settling into lecture mode. “Five guys have gone missing, presumed dead, in the last month, from the same bar. All of them in their early twenties, tall, dark hair. Research points to the previous owner. He was beaten to death a few years back when he picked up the wrong guy. Even though there were a few witnesses, the guy’s remains were never found. New owners bought the place a few months back and started construction. My best guess is that he’s buried in a shallow grave somewhere in or around the bar.”  
  
Dean licks his lips and nods. He knows all this already. “Skip to the part where you think it’s a good idea to use yourself as bait,” he grits out. _This_ is the part he’s having trouble with.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes again – seriously, one day they’re gonna get stuck like that or Sam’s going to pull something – and sighs. “I fit the profile, Dean,” he replies simply.  
  
“So do I,” Dean argues.  
  
“No, you’re too old. His spirit never takes anyone older than twenty-five.”  
  
“I don’t like it,” Dean mutters.  
  
A small smile curls up Sam’s lips and he pushes himself up out of his chair and circles around the table, stopping right in front of Dean. Sitting back enough to look up at his brother, Dean’s automatically grab Sam’s hips, fingers hooking into his belt loops.  
  
“I know you don’t,” Sam says softly. “But I’ll be ok. You’ll be right there. Nothin’ll happen to me while you got my back.” He leans down, his lips sliding across Dean’s in a feather-light kiss. “It’s the best way to draw him out and give you time to torch him and you know it.” Dean _does_ know it. Doesn’t mean he has to like it though.  
  
“Next time Bobby offers us a case,” he murmurs against Sam’s lips, “remind me to tell him no.”  
  
Sam chuckles softly and nuzzles against Dean’s jaw. “Got a few hours ‘til we can go,” he whispers and Dean’s cock twitches in anticipation just from the liquid-sex tone of Sam’s voice. “Any idea how we can pass the time?”  
  
Dean turns his head and licks the side of Sam’s lips, feels him smile against his tongue. “Hell yeah,” he growls. His arms wrap all the way around Sam’s lean waist and he stands up, practically bending Sam backward over the rickety table. Dean would _love_ to take the time to slowly stretch Sam out on his fingers and tongue, keep him on edge until he’s writhing and moaning and begging Dean, but they have a hunt tonight – one where Sam insists on playing bait – so there’s no way he’s going to risk leaving Sam even remotely sore. Doesn’t mean that there aren’t plenty of other options though.  
  
Dean pulls Sam away from the table and walks him backward toward the bed that they’ve been sharing. Sam laughs, soft and bright, dimples digging in deep, when Dean lets them fall onto the mattress, a tangle of long limbs and grabby hands. There’s love and lust and mischief shining in Sam’s champagne-hazel eyes and he fucking _loves_ when Sam lets go and things get playful like this between them. All too often, it’s either hurried and frantic or rough and intense. He thinks maybe they should take the time to be like this more often.  
  
Sam smirks at him and flips him onto his back, his lips curling up into that proud, little brother grin. Bright snapshots of them as kids flash before his eyes, of Sam giving him that same grin the first time he emptied a clip into a bulls-eye perfectly; the first time he threw a knife, drove Dean’s car, got the best of Dean when they were sparring. The lines have always been blurry between them and Dean can’t help but wonder what it says about him that it turns him on so much when Sam still looks at him like that, like Dean’s still his big Goddamn hero, little brother worship in his lust-blown eyes.  
  
Sam’s lips are soft and wet on his neck and Dean’s brain stutters to a halt, nothing else mattering except for _hot-wet-now_. Dean groans and arches his neck, exposing more skin for Sam to do with as he pleases. Sam hums happily in the back of his throat and nips at Dean’s thundering pulse, making them both moan. Bitey little fucker.  
  
“Naked,” Dean gasps, his hands sliding up under Sam’s shirts, palms slipping over baby-soft skin covering steel-hard muscle. “Now,” he adds when Sam just continues to suck biting kisses along his neck and jaw.  
  
“Bossy,” Sam murmurs against the sensitive skin below Dean’s ear. Dean hums softly. They both damn-well know that Sam loves it.  
  
They strip each other quickly and efficiently, years spent doing this not knowing how much time they had; never quite sure when Dad would show up again. Even though they’re on their own, and have been for a while, there are just some things that are so ingrained they can’t be changed.  
  
Sam is on his hands and knees, hovering over Dean, his legs straddling Dean’s thighs. His sweat-damp hair is falling into his eyes and his cheeks are flushed and his lips are spit-shiny and a little swollen and Dean _wants_. He’s never been one for impulse control but it’s so much worse when it comes to Sam.  
  
Sam licks his lips, biting down on the bottom one, his head turning slightly to the side as he studies Dean silently for a few long moments. Dean fights the urge to fidget. Even though they’ve been doing this since Sam was a skinny, awkward, sullen fifteen-year-old, there are times he still feels pinned and flayed open by that intense, searching gaze. It leaves him more naked than the lack of clothes when Sam looks at him like that, like he’s looking down into Dean’s very soul.  
  
Before Dean can demand – or beg, he’s not sure which at this point – for Sam to do _something,_ Sam leans down and slides their lips together. Sometimes, Sam is pretty freaking awesome and he knows how much of being vulnerable Dean can realistically take and how much he can’t and he rarely pushes those boundaries.  
  
Sam’s lips slide down his chin, his neck, his chest, all the way down his abs, stopping at his hipbone. Dean looks down the line of his own body, his cock twitching at the sight of Sam hovering over him. With a smirk to rival one of Dean’s own, Sam dips his head and sucks a spectacular bruise on the inside of his hipbone. Dean grunts, his back arching, pleasure shooting through him like lightning, like that spot of skin is directly connected to his dick.  
  
Sam pulls away with a slick pop and tilts his head, admiring his handiwork. Dean reaches out and grabs Sam under his arms and flips him over. A startled laugh bursts from Sam when his back hits the mattress but it dissolves into a moan when Dean goes straight for his hips, biting the sharp jut of bone. Sam’s hips are nearly as sensitive as his cock and Dean’s always loved the response he gets from licking and sucking and biting at them.  
  
Sam moans like he’s dying, his hips thrusting up, fucking into thin air. “Please,” he gasps. “Dean… Fuck. Please.”  
  
Dean lets go of his hip, licks over the matching bruise that he sucked into Sam’s tan, baby-soft skin, before licking his way back up the beautiful, muscular line of Sam’s body. Sam lets his legs fall open, making space for Dean between his thighs, and they both moan when Dean drops his hips, their cocks brushing together, nothing but sweat and pre-come to ease the way.  
  
“Wanchu to fuck me, Dean,” Sam breathes, his thighs tightening around Dean’s hips, his blunt nails dragging down Dean’s back.  
  
“Later, baby,” Dean promises. “After we put this son of a bitch down. Gonna spread you out and spend _hours_ fuckin’ you into the mattress.”  
  
Sam gasps, his eyes widening before slamming closed, his head pressing back into the pillow beneath his head, his cock twitching against Dean’s. “Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, fingers digging into the meat of Dean’s ass bruise-tight. “’m close, Dean,” he adds after a few more thrusts of Dean’s hips, their blood-thick lengths rubbing together, slippery-wet heads catching and dragging together with almost too dry friction.  
  
“Me, too, Sammy,” Dean rasps.  
  
In the end, they come at nearly the same time, moaning and rocking together through it. Sam grins up at him, sated and sweaty and beautiful, and Dean can’t stop himself from returning it. As much as he doesn’t want to move – Sam’s ridiculous plan only part of the problem – he can feel the time slipping away from them. Like he’s reading Dean’s mind, Sam leans up and presses a kiss to the side of his lips. “We should get up and shower. Get this show on the road.”  
  
Dean closes his eyes and drops his forehead down against Sam’s. His brother slides one hand over the back of his head, fingertips scratching at his scalp, his other arm squeezing around Dean’s waist. “It’s ok, Dean,” he whispers. “Like I said, I’ll have you there. What’s the worst that could happen?”  
  
“Famous last words, little brother,” Dean warns before – reluctantly – pushing himself up off the mattress and dragging Sam toward the bathroom.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
Surprisingly, finding the body is easy enough. He’s buried in a shallow grave behind the bar and he can’t help but wonder why the cops never found him, how much they really even looked. Dean starts digging quickly, a bad feeling churning in the pit of his gut. Sam’s inside, a few mere feet away and Dean can see him through the open back door, but it’s still not enough. He’d tried to talk Sam into staying by him while he dug but Sam is determined to keep the spirit’s attention away from Dean long enough for him to salt and burn the bastard.  
  
Just as Dean clears the last of the dirt away from bone and mutters a soft “Yahtzee” he hears Sam shout and the dull thud of his brother hitting the wall next to the door. It’s a sad commentary of their lives that he knows without looking what that sounds like.  
  
It’s oddly silent after that, no sound of Sam fighting or the blast of his sawed-off, and that bad feeling multiplies by about a million. Dean dumps the entire cans of salt and gasoline over the bones and drops in the book of matches, not even bothering to watch as it catches fire. He runs into the open door, his heart slamming against his ribcage.  
  
The spirit is hovering over his fallen brother but goes up in flames as his body does. Dean barely notices. All he can see is Sam sprawled out on the ground, the dent in the drywall where his body hit it, and the pool of blood quickly forming around Sam’s head. His arm is tucked under him, bent at an awkward angle, and there’s a gash along the side of his head, from temple to the hinge of his jaw.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean whispers, finally forcing his legs to move, to carry him to Sam’s side. He drops heavily to his knees, ignoring the jolt of pain from the bare concrete, and reaches out, his hand shaking where it’s hovering over Sam’s shoulder. Clenching his jaw, he drops his hand and gently pushes Sam more onto his back, bile burning the back of his throat. There’s already a nasty bruise discoloring the side of Sam’s face and the gash is bleeding freely. Sam’s lips are slightly parted and his eyes are closed and his chest isn’t moving.  
  
Dean’s hands are trembling so bad he can barely steady them enough to slide his fingers over Sam’s neck, searching for a pulse. He sags slightly in relief when he feels his brother’s heartbeat, slow and weak but thankfully _there_ , and leans forward enough to feel the soft, barely-there exhales from Sam’s lips.  
  
“Fuck,” he whispers, his eyes squeezing closed for just a second. “It’s gonna be ok, Sammy. It’s not that bad. We’ll get’cha fixed up and then I can kick your ass for bein’ stubborn and I… I owe you like a million I-told-you-so’s, kiddo.” Dean’s not sure who he’s trying to reassure, Sam or himself, but he’s pretty sure it’s more for his benefit then Sam’s. After all, it’s not like Sam can hear him right now.  
  
In a feat of strength that he’d brag about under other circumstances, he manages to heave Sam’s gigantic, heavy ass off the ground –  
resolutely ignoring the voice in his head repeating _dead weight_ over and over again – and out the door. The Impala is a few feet away, black paint gleaming in the light of the moon. Dean opens the back door and gently lays Sam down, his blood-stained hand lightly pushing Sam’s hair off his forehead. He finally forces himself to move, even though it’s the last damn thing he wants, and closes the back door, practically ripping his own door off the hinges in his haste to get it open. He slams the door and speeds out of the alley toward the nearest hospital, one eye on his brother in the rearview mirror the whole time.  
  
It doesn’t take long to get to the hospital but to Dean it feels like hours. The nurse behind the desk in the ER looks up at him with wide eyes when he bursts through the door, half-carrying, half-dragging Sam. She scrambles to her feet after a moment though and yells for help. It’s a flurry of movement after that, nurses rushing out with a stretcher and taking Sam away from him.  
  
Dean moves to follow but a small hand against the middle of his chest stops him. He looks down into soft, concerned brown eyes. “Sir,” the nurse says, firm and calm. “You can’t go back there.”  
  
“My brother…” Dean chokes out, trying to push past her.  
  
“I understand, sir. But he’s in the best hands possible right now. Let us help him.” She wraps one hand around Dean’s wrist and moves him over to a chair in the waiting room. “Can you tell me what happened?”  
  
Dean licks his lips and glances up at her. “He got jumped,” he mutters, his gaze moving to the door keeping him away from Sam. “I got there after, didn’t see who did it.”  
  
“Is there someone you’d like for me to call? Family perhaps?”  
  
“No, uh, I… There’s just our uncle. I’ll call him.”  
  
She smiles and pats his hand. “We’ll take care of your brother, sir. Don’t you worry.”  
  
Dean drags his eyes from the door and watches her walk away. With a sigh, he digs his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the way his hands shake and the blood – _Sam’s_ blood – all over them. His jaw clenches while he listens to the phone ring, his eyes sliding closed when Bobby answers.  
  
“Bobby,” he croaks out.  
  
“Shit,” Bobby sighs and Dean can hear the rustle of him sliding a hand over his beard. “What happened?”  
  
“Hunt went bad. Sam…”  
  
“Where ya at, son?”  
  
“Um… Brookings. ’bout an hour outside Sioux Falls.” Dean pauses, clears his throat. “He… I had’ta bring him to the hospital, Bobby.”  
  
“’m on my way, Dean. Just… Hang on ‘til I get there, alright?”  
  
Dean nods even though Bobby can’t see him and hangs up, idly wondering in the back of his mind if their dad was still alive if he’d drop everything and come. Dean highly doubts it.  
  
Time passes oddly as Dean stares at the door leading back to wherever they took Sam. In a way, it feels like it’s only been minutes but then again it feels like it’s been hours. The nurse brings him paperwork to fill out and gently asks about insurance but none of it really registers. All he can think about is the fact that Sam is hurt badly enough that Dean’s not entirely sure his brother is going to be okay. The soft, sympathetic look from the nurse he catches out of the corner of his eye makes him want to scream and cry and throw things like an angry child having a tantrum.  
  
He knows this is all his fault. If he’d been faster or better – or hadn’t let Sam and his freaking puppy eyes and dimples talk him into this in the first place – Sam wouldn’t be here right now, there wouldn’t be strangers in there trying to save his little brother’s life.  
  
He can hear their dad’s voice in his head, telling him how much he screwed up, how much he failed at The Most Important Thing. His whole life, he’s had one job, one thing that he was born into this miserable, shit-hole life to do – Protect Sammy – and he can’t even do that right.  
  
He should run. Right now, as far and as fast as he can. He should get away from Sam before he ends up getting him killed. If he hasn’t already.  
  
Even now, the thought of being without Sam makes his heart ache so much he gasps, rubbing at his chest like he can soothe the pain.  
  
The nurse looks over at him again, frowning in concern and what he’s pretty damn sure is pity. He ignores her and just keeps staring at the door, willing it to open but yet terrified of the moment that it does.  
  
Dean damn-near cries when Bobby walks up to him and grips his shoulder, squeezing briefly.  
  
He doesn’t know how long they sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs but he’s vaguely aware of Bobby filling out the forms and taking their most recent fake insurance card to the nurse at the desk. He tries to drink the watered down crap that they pass off as coffee but it turns his stomach and makes him want to puke.  
  
Bobby tries to talk to him but Dean can’t right now. It’s too much, this fear and guilt and pain weighing down on his shoulders. “He’ll be alright, son,” Bobby says softly, gruffly.  
  
Dean merely grunts in response.  
  
Eventually, a tired-looking older man pushes through the door, the front of his green scrubs bloody and Dean’s whole world slows to a stop. He listens as the doctor tells them that Sam’s in a coma and there was some swelling in his brain and that they had to go in and operate to relieve the pressure. He should wake up, and he should be fine, but there’s no way to tell how long that will take, or if it’ll even happen. They have to wait and see; mostly it’s up to Sam at this point.  
  
He leads Dean and Bobby to a private room on the second floor and Dean hovers outside the door, tears pooling in his eyes as he looks inside, at Sam. His normally gigantic little brother looks so small in the sea of stark white, tubes and wires covering him, a cast on his arm and a bandage around his head. And for a moment, all Dean can stupidly think is how pissed Sam’s going to be if they shaved his head.  
  
Bobby’s hand on his back, gently urging him forward, is the only thing that gets him moving again. He collapses into yet another uncomfortable chair and reaches forward, the tips of his fingers ghosting over the side of Sam’s face, over the gauze.  
  
“Sammy,” he whispers, throat too tight.  
  
Bobby’s standing on the other side of the bed and Dean hears him let out a soft sigh. “Where’re you boys stayin’?” he asks softly. Dean blearily hands him the key to their motel. Bobby nods and shoves it into his pocket. “I’ll go and clean up your stuff, pack up the car. Did’ya finish it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean rasps. For a moment, the worry enters his mind about letting Bobby go into their room, wondering if they left any sign of their relationship out that he could see – the last thing Dean wants to try to explain is a bottle of lube being left out or something like that – but truthfully, he’s just too worried about Sam to even really care at the moment.  
  
“Alright, son,” Bobby sighs, moving to stand next to Dean’s chair, once again squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll be back in the morning. Try’n get some rest.”  
  
Dean nods, not looking away from Sam’s face. If he ignores all the bruising and the wires and tubes, he could just pretend Sam is asleep. It doesn’t work.  
  
He waits until he hears Bobby leave before standing up, gently leaning over the rail, presses a kiss to the side of Sam’s lips. “’m so sorry, baby boy,” he whispers. “You… You gotta be ok, Sammy. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”  
  
He drops back down into his seat and carefully grabs Sam’s fingers that are poking out of the end of the cast and lays his head down on the mattress next to his brother’s hip.   
  
  
Chapter two  
  


Dean hadn’t realized that he’d fallen into a restless sleep until he hears the door open softly and Bobby’s hand lands on his shoulder. He’s still holding Sam’s fingers and he’s leaning against Sam’s hip but he can’t really bring himself to care at this point what Bobby sees and what he thinks of any of it. His brother’s in a fucking coma and he thinks he’s Goddamn entitled to want to cling a little.  
  
Bobby drops his duffel on the floor at Dean’s feet. Dean doesn’t move. Bobby sighs and pulls a chair over next to Dean and plops down in it. “Dean,” he says, still soft but firm enough to make it more of an order. Dean glances over at Bobby but still doesn’t lift his head, his fingers idly playing with Sam’s, stupidly hoping that it’s enough to make Sam wake up and bitch at him to stop. “You… You need’ta clean up. You’re a mess,” he adds pointedly.  
  
“’m not leavin’ him,” Dean mutters.  
  
“And I’m not sayin’ that you should. Or that you have’ta. There’s a bathroom right there, Dean,” Bobby points at the wall behind them, “’sides, a shower and gettin’ outta those clothes will do ya good.”  
  
“What if he needs me?” Dean hears himself whisper.  
  
“I’ll be right here with him, kiddo,” Bobby says softly, giving him a small smile. “You’ll be a few feet away. Gone for ten minutes at the most.” Dean opens his mouth but Bobby shakes his head. “I’ll call ya if anything happens, Dean. You know I will.”  
  
Dean swallows thickly and nods, forcing himself to sit up and let go of Sam’s hand. He looks down at himself, his stomach lurching at the sight of the blood all over his clothes and his skin. He stands up and grabs the duffel, leaning over the rail of Sam’s bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be right back, Sammy,” he whispers. When he stands back upright, he glances at Bobby, unsure if he’s going to say anything about what he saw. It’s not particularly damning evidence, Dean used to kiss Sam on the forehead all the time and when Sam was really little, he’d kiss Dean on the lips or the cheek every night before bed, but that was when they were still kids. Thankfully, Bobby just gives him another small smile and nods toward the bathroom door. “Ten minutes,” Dean rasps.  
  
Dean inhales deeply, leaning against the sink in the too-small bathroom, his head hanging down, his chin almost touching his chest. He doesn’t want to be away from Sam but Bobby’s right; he needs to clean up and take a second just to _breathe_.  
  
Looking down at himself, Dean wants to puke all over again. His jeans and shirt are stained red with blood – with _Sam’s_ blood – as well as his hands and arms. With a low growl, Dean tears his clothes off, jaw clenching when he sees that the blood has seeped through enough to stain his chest pink. There’s a purplish bruise on the inside of his hipbone and he closes his eyes, running the tips of his fingers over the mark, remembering when Sam put it there just the day before, the way that his hazel eyes twinkled in the low light in the room right before Dean grabbed him and flipped him onto his back and repaid the favor.  
  
Without really thinking, he draws back and punches the wall right next to the mirror, unable to stand looking at his own reflection. The muffled thump is loud and Dean’s jaw clenches, the pain shooting up his arm not enough to take away the ache in his heart.  
  
“Dean?” Bobby calls out, tone gruff and tired sounding. Dean realizes that this probably isn’t easy on Bobby either.  
  
“’m fine,” Dean replies, even though he’s not completely sure if Bobby even heard him. Turning toward the too-small shower stall, Dean turns on the water. He hisses when he gets under the stream and blindly reaches for the cold. He hadn’t even realized that he set the temperature just this side of scalding; how Sam likes his showers.  
  
Dean scrubs until his skin is pink for a different reason and then hangs his head, just letting the surprisingly strong water pressure hit his neck and shoulders, run down his back, and thinks about standing there until he drowns. As much as it’s killing him to be away from Sam’s side, he can’t stand the thought of going back into that room and seeing his strong, beautiful, full-of-life little brother in that fucking hospital bed.  
  
Knowing that he can’t put off the inevitable forever, Dean shuts off the water and gets out, quickly drying off and dressing. Physically, he feels marginally better – even if he’s still freaking exhausted – but mentally and emotionally, he’s still a wreck.  
  
Without the water flowing, he can hear Bobby’s voice, low and a little growly. Dean frowns, his head tilted to the right and he’s embarrassed to admit that it takes his over-tired brain a few seconds longer than it should to realize that he’s hearing Latin.  
  
Dean bursts out of the bathroom, hand reaching behind him for his gun that isn’t there, his eyes darting around the room, looking for the threat to his fallen brother. Bobby’s wide eyes snap to his and he frowns, looking around the room as well. Dean finally notices the book in Bobby’s lap and his heart flips around inside his chest.  
  
“You’re reading him Latin?” Dean asks, slightly incredulously.  
  
“Shuddup,” Bobby grumbles and despite himself, despite _everything_ , Dean laughs. “Just… Thought it might help for him to hear somethin’ familiar.”  
  
Dean smirks and flops down into the chair on Sam’s other side, his eyes catching Bobby’s over Sam’s chest. “You could’a just talked to him, ya know.”  
  
“I know that. Idjit. I just… This seemed easier,” Bobby shrugs. “I can stop…”  
  
“No,” Dean interrupts. “’s ok. Go ‘head.”  
  
Dean twines his fingers with Sam’s and lays his head down on the mattress near his brother’s hip, his eyes sliding closed. Bobby’s voice washes over him, the familiar language in the even more familiar tone reminding Dean of when they were kids and sitting at Bobby’s feet, just learning.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
Five days.  
  
Sam lingers in the coma for five days and Dean’s seriously starting to wonder if he’ll ever wake up. He and Bobby talk to Sam and read to him until their voices are hoarse but still no response. After the third day, Dean stopped trying. He sits and stares at his brother, praying to a God he doesn’t believe in for Sam to just open his fucking eyes.  
  
The first flinch of movement takes Dean by surprise and he sits up straight, staring intently at Sam. There’s nothing else for so long that Dean’s already convinced himself that he imagined it. But then there’s another small movement, Sam’s hand twitching against his stomach, and Dean’s on his feet, leaning over the railing, wrecked voice urging Sam for more. Bobby’s across from him, a look of cautious optimism on his face. Sam’s eyes flutter behind the thin lids a few times before he blinks them open all the way. He panics when he feels the tube down his throat and Dean has to hold him down by the shoulders while Bobby gets someone to get the damn thing out.  
  
The doctors and nurses push Dean and Bobby out of the room while they remove the tube. Dean leans against the wall, chewing on his thumb nail – a bad habit he picked up from Sam – and waits for what feels like hours before they exit the room again without a word. Dean shares a look with Bobby, who just shrugs, and heads back inside.  
  
Startled hazel eyes snap back and forth between Dean and Bobby, Sam’s chest rising and falling as he struggles to regulate his breathing.  
  
“Easy, Sammy,” Dean rasps, his tone shaky. “’s ok.”  
  
“No,” Sam cuts in, shaking his head. “It’s not… I don’t…” He pauses, licks his lips, and frowns slightly. “I don’t… Who are you?”  
  
Dean’s heart slams against his ribs so hard he thinks that it just might burst through. “’s me. Dean.” At Sam’s still confused and clueless look, Dean adds, “Your brother.”  
  
Those hazel eyes that he loves so Goddamn much continue to focus on him with fear – so lost and unsure – and Dean’s never been able to handle Sam looking at him like that. But seeing the lack of recognition, the lack of the love and bond and history they share, breaks Dean in ways he never thought he _could_ break.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean whispers just as he hears a muttered, “fuck” from Bobby before he storms from the room. Dean takes a step toward the bed, freezing when Sam flinches, his eyes widening impossibly more. “’s ok,” Dean rasps. “I… I’m not gonna hurt you, Sam.”  
  
Sam inhales shakily and shakes his head minutely. “I don’t… Why don’t I know you?” he asks softly, a slight frown turning down his lips, his brow furrowed. “I don’t even know myself,” he adds, almost as if he’s talking to himself. Dean can see the panic starting to work through Sam even more and for the first time in Sam’s life, he has no idea how to fix it. Those wet, tortured, terrified hazel eyes snap back to him and it’s like a punch to the gut. “Why don’t I know anything?” Sam asks, bordering on hysterical.  
  
“’s ok, Sammy,” Dean tries to soothe, holding his hands up as he takes another step closer to the bed. Sam’s still eyeing him warily but thankfully he doesn’t flinch again. Dean supposes he should be thankful for small miracles. “You… You got hurt,” he explains carefully. “Best I can figure is the head injury is messin’ with your memory.”  
  
Before either of them can say anything else, Bobby pushes the door open, a doctor that Dean hasn’t seen before following behind. Much to Dean’s – slightly vocal – displeasure, the doctor practically kicks him and Bobby out of the room again so he can examine Sam. Dean slumps against the wall, running one hand down over his face. He jerks slightly when Bobby squeezes his shoulder, slowly rolling his head along the wall to face the older hunter.  
  
“You know that he’s gonna be ok, don’t’cha?” Bobby asks softly.  
  
“No, actually, I don’t know that,” Dean replies, barely resisting the urge to scream or cry or find something to kill. “It… ‘s not just me, Bobby. He doesn’t even remember who he is. I just…” he trails off, squeezing his aching, gritty eyes closed. “What if… What if I never… What if he never comes back from this?” Dean eventually mutters, forcing his eyes open again to look at Bobby.  
  
“Sam’s a tough son of a bitch, son,” Bobby says, fond but gruff. “That big ol’ brain’a his’ll be just fine.”  
  
The doctor comes back out, face unreadable but Dean can’t miss the grim look in his eyes. After a shit-ton of medical jargon and crap that Dean can’t even begin to understand, it all boils down to the fact that Sam’s concussion and the bleeding in his brain – and the resulting pressure – has caused a form of temporary amnesia.  
  
“He may regain everything in a few days,” the doctor explains. “Or it may take months. There may be things he never recovers. It’s unfortunate but with cases like this, we just simply can’t be sure. The best thing is to let it happen naturally, however it happens. Don’t force it. And don’t let him force it either. It’ll be tempting for him, especially when things start to come back.”  
  
“But it’s not permanent?” Bobby asks and Dean’s honestly never been so grateful to have him in their lives as he is right now.  
  
“More than likely, no. There is the possibility that Sam may never regain his memories but those chances are small, less than ten percent.” That’s still too big of a chance in Dean’s opinion but he doesn’t say anything. “Like I said, best thing to do is just let it happen. Keep him calm and rested, surrounded by familiar things if possible. We’ll keep him for a few more days, just to monitor him and treat the physical things that we can.”  
  
Three days later, Dean signs Sam out of the hospital. Bobby insisted that Dean bring him to Sioux Falls, smacking Dean upside the back of his head when Dean muttered about not wanting to be a burden.  
  
“You both need someplace to recoup, boy. And Sam needs someplace familiar and stable. Movin’ him to a damn motel room ain’t gonna do either’a you any favors.” He pauses, inhaling deeply, before adding, “’sides, you boys’re like family to me. And if I can help, I’m gonna.”  
  
Dean pushes Sam’s wheelchair out to the curb where the Impala is idling, his heart in his throat. Even though he knows it’s a long shot, he can’t help but hope that Sam will take one look at her – their only real home since Sam was six months old – and that everything will come flooding back. To his disappointment – even though he tries not to let it get to him – Sam merely glances at the car before pushing himself out of the chair and opens the door, carefully lowering himself into the seat.  
  
Dean huffs a sigh, his shoulders slumping, and crosses to the driver’s side. The door creaks like always and for the first time that Dean can ever remember, the comfort and familiarity of his Baby doesn’t calm his nerves. Dean gets onto the highway and heads toward Sioux Falls, following behind the old Camaro that Bobby’s driving. The silence in the car is broken only by the growl of her engine – Dean doesn’t want to turn the radio on, not wanting to add to it if Sam has a headache – which leaves Dean’s mind entirely too much time to wonder.  
  
He’s honestly not sure what he’ll do if Sam never recovers his memories. Or only recovers part of them. Even though he was on the road by himself before he dragged Sam away from Stanford – longer than he ever admitted to his brother – he’s gotten used to Sam being by his side and honestly doesn’t want to go on without him. Even though Sam doesn’t believe him, Dean never begrudged him his chance to get out of the life, to go to school and try for normal. No, what hurt Dean the most was that Sam left _him_ behind. He’s always wanted nothing but the best for his brother and if Stanford and some picket fence life in the suburbs is what will make Sam happy, then Dean’s always wanted that for him. But he’s a selfish bastard and he knows it, because even now, with the threat of Sam never remembering him or their lives, the thought of letting him go makes Dean want to puke.  
  
“Where are we going?” Sam asks softly from the passenger’s seat, startling Dean from his thoughts.  
  
Dean glances over at his brother, his gut churning still – even after three days – at the lack of recognition in Sam’s eyes. “Uh, Bobby’s,” he replies, snapping his gaze back out the front window. “Sioux Falls to be exact.”  
  
“So, he’s… he’s our uncle?”  
  
“Sorta,” Dean sighs. “Look, it’s… It’s complicated, Sam. And besides, the doctor told you not to push the memories.”  
  
“I’m not pushing,” Sam mutters. “How will I remember if I don’t ask?”  
  
“You’re supposed to just… let it happen, I guess.”  
  
“That’s stupid.” Sam inhales deeply and turns a bit, his left leg bent on the bench seat between them, staring at the side of Dean’s face. “And, how can it be complicated? Either he is or he isn’t.”  
  
Dean huffs out a sigh and shakes his head. “Stubborn shit,” he murmurs. “Fine. No, he’s not _really_ our uncle. He’s a… family friend. We’ve known him since we were kids and he was always just Uncle Bobby,” Dean shrugs.  
  
“What about our parents? Why weren’t they there? Will they come to Bobby’s house?”  
  
Dean’s jaw clenches and his fingers flex on the steering wheel. There’s no way that Sam can know just how much those innocent little questions hurt. “I don’t… Not now, Sam.”  
  
“C’mon, Dean,” Sam pushes, all insistent, petulant little brother, and for a moment, he sounds so achingly like Dean’s Sam that his breath catches in his throat. But when he looks at Sam, there’s still that lost, unsure, unknowing look in his eyes, same as before. “Just tell me.”  
  
“They’re dead, Sam,” Dean grits out.  
  
“Oh,” Sam breathes. It’s silent for a few minutes and Dean honestly didn’t think it could get more uncomfortable then it was before Sam opened his mouth but he was wrong. “I don’t… I’m sorry,” Sam says softly. Dean jerks when he feels Sam’s hand on his forearm, his brother squeezing gently before letting go. “Can I ask what happened?”  
  
“You shouldn’t,” Dean replies tensely. “But I guess even without your memories, you’re still a stubborn brat. And a pain in my ass,” he adds, mostly under his breath. “Mom died when you were a baby, in a fire at our old house. Dad… That was just a few months ago.” Dean can see Sam’s brow furrow out of the corner of his eye, his lips opening and closing a few times but nothing comes out. “Before you ask, no, I’m not gonna tell you what happened. You just… Trust me on this, ok? I know that you don’t know me but you gotta believe me when I say that it’s best to just let it be right now.”  
  
Sam smiles softly and nods. “Ok,” he agrees simply. “And I… Just ‘cause I don’t remember you, that doesn’t mean I don’t trust you. You’re my brother, Dean.” He says it with such absolute conviction, the trust evident in those simple words, that it makes Dean’s stomach churn. Sam doesn’t know right now what it means, how much the word ‘brother’ means to them, to Dean.  
  
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Get some rest, Sam. We still got about an hour to go.”  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
The next few days crawl by.  
  
Dean hangs out in the yard, working on the Impala – even though she doesn’t need it – and helping Bobby with a few of the old junkers that he’s working on. Bobby says that Dean’s hiding but Dean just rolls his eyes and ignores him – even though he’s completely right. It’s too damn hard to be around Sam right now. Dean’s used to being able to touch, or just look at his brother, and have Sam know exactly what he’s thinking, and having those simple things taken away from him hurts more than he cares to admit.  
  
Even though he shouldn’t, and Dean wishes he _wouldn’t_ , Bobby starts showing Sam pictures after the fourth day. Most of them are from Dad’s journal and the trunk of the Impala, the ones they got from Jenny – and how Bobby got those without Dean’s knowledge he’ll never know – but there are a few that Dean manages to see that aren’t theirs. Which means that they’re Bobby’s. Most of them are from when they were kids but there are a few of them when they’re older, a couple taken as recently as a few months ago; Sam and Dean standing in front of the newly rebuilt Impala, their arms around each other, smiling at the camera. It warms Dean’s heart despite everything and he smiles at the way Bobby grumbles when Dean calls him out on it.  
  
A week at Bobby’s and Dean’s starting to get antsy. He’s never done well with staying in the same place for long, even at Bobby’s, and he’s starting to consider looking for a hunt.  
  
He moves quietly down the hall after taking a shower to wash off the dirt and grime from a day spent fixing cars. The door to Sam’s room is open – it’s weird to think of it as Sam’s room, it’s the room they’ve always shared since they met Bobby, but with everything going on, Dean opted to take the smaller room across the hall – and he pauses, hovering just next to the doorframe, peaking inside at his brother.  
  
Sam’s sitting on the bed, absently scratching at the stitches along the side of his face. Even though he’s been doing his best to ignore Sam, he misses him so much, his whole body aching to just be near his brother, even for a minute or two. He clears his throat softly and steps into the room, smiling when Sam’s eyes snap to him and he quickly drops his hand, a flash of guilt painting his face.  
  
“You… I can take those out, if you want,” Dean murmurs, jerking his chin toward Sam’s face.  
  
“You can?” Sam asks around a small frown.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean chuckles. He moves closer and jerks his chin toward the headboard. “Sit up a little more.”  
  
Sam does as he asks, looking up at him expectantly. Dean sits down near his brother’s hip and reaches up, gently pushing the still too long hair aside.  
  
“They’re ready to come out,” he says softly.  
  
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”  
  
Dean has to remind himself that this Sam doesn’t remember all the times that they’ve stitched each other up, taken care of each other when they got injured, but the question still hurts. Dean clears his throat, belatedly realizing that he’s still touching Sam’s hair and quickly drops his hand. “I can get Bobby if you’d rather…”  
  
“No,” Sam interrupts. “It’s ok. I didn’t mean…” he trails off and takes a deep breath. “I want you to. It’s ok, Dean.” He pauses again and shoots Dean a smile, his dimples digging into his cheeks. “Thank you,” he adds softly.  
  
Dean merely jerks his head in a slight nod and gets up again, quickly heading back to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit. Sam’s still sitting right where Dean left him, a small smile still curling up his lips. “What?” Dean asks as he sits back down and takes out the small scissors, once again pushing Sam’s hair out of the way.  
  
“Nothin’ really,” Sam says softly. “Just… It’s nice to see you. You’ve been busy the last few days.”  
  
Dean feels guilty immediately. “Shit,” he sighs. “’m sorry, Sam. I just…”  
  
“I know,” Sam cuts him off softly. “I’m… I’m sorry I can’t remember things, Dean. I really am. I know it’s hard for you.”  
  
Dean clenches his jaw and forces himself to focus on carefully removing Sam’s stitches instead of Sam’s soft voice or the look in his eyes or how close they are. “’s not your fault, Sam,” he eventually whispers, smoothing his thumb over the skin next to the neat line of stitches he’s removing. The doctor did a good job; they’re neat and close together and shouldn’t scar too bad. And Sam’s hair will mostly hide it anyway.  
  
Sam’s quiet while Dean finishes up but before he can pull his hand away, Sam reaches up and grabs his wrist, silently forcing Dean to look at him. “What?” Dean asks softly, a little too breathlessly for his liking.  
  
“When I woke up,” Sam damn-near whispers. “You kept callin’ me Sammy. But you… You don’t anymore.”  
  
“That’s ‘cause you hate it,” Dean forces himself to say. He honestly hadn’t even realized that he’d been avoiding calling his brother Sammy until he brought it up. Honestly, it just hurts too much. And as much as he wants him to be, and he feels like shit for even thinking it, this _isn’t_ his Sammy.  
  
“We… Do we not get along?” Sam asks softly, sounding like the lost, scared little boy he hasn’t been in way too damn long.  
  
“Why would you think that?” Dean asks, frowning slightly when he notices that Sam hasn’t let go of his wrist yet.  
  
Sam licks his lips, chewing on the bottom one for a moment before sighing softly. He lets go of Dean’s wrist – Dean misses the skin on skin contact immediately – and shifts slightly, like he’s uncomfortable. “I don’t… It’s just, it’s like you’re avoiding me,” Sam eventually says quietly. “You let Bobby deal with me. If I have questions…”  
  
“You’re not supposed to push, Sam,” Dean interrupts, a little harsher than he meant to, and he regrets the tone immediately when Sam flinches slightly. “Shit, ‘m sorry, man.”  
  
“No, it’s ok,” Sam whispers, his eyes dropping away from Dean’s, to his chest. He tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing, and Dean realizes that he’s looking at the amulet. “I… I gave that to you,” Sam murmurs, almost to himself. “When we were kids. I… I remember handing it to you, wrapped in newspaper.” Sam blinks and looks back up at him, a million questions in his eyes. “Is that right? Am I remembering right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean rasps, swallowing thickly. “You did, you are. You were eight.”  
  
Sam nods and reaches out, just barely brushing his fingers over the small brass figure and Dean’s mind flashes to all the times that Sam wrapped his hand around the cord and pulled him into a kiss. Sam drops his hand immediately and shoots Dean a strained smile. “Sorry.” He inhales deeply and looks away again, shaking his head. “So I guess we used to get along then, huh?”  
  
“We get along fine now,” Dean insists softly.  
  
Sam scoffs quietly, shaking his head. “I may not remember a lot but I do know that you’re a shitty liar, Dean.”  
  
Dean clenches his jaw and stands up. Unable to resist, he reaches out and runs one hand through Sam’s hair. “We’re closer than you could ever imagine, kiddo,” he whispers hoarsely, leaning down to press a kiss to Sam’s forehead, before forcing himself to walk away, ignoring the heart-wrenching sound of Sam whimpering his name.  
  
Chapter three  
  


Dean shoves another t-shirt into his bag, ignoring Bobby where he’s leaning up against the door frame to ‘his’ room. “What the hell’re you doin’, kid?” Bobby eventually asks. Dean doesn’t have to look at him to imagine the disappointment in his eyes, can hear it plain as day in his voice.  
  
“Found a hunt,” Dean mutters. “Few hours out. Thought I’d get back to it now that Sam’s gettin’ better.”  
  
“You mean you’re runnin’ away,” Bobby grumbles.  
  
“No, I mean that I’m goin’ back out on the road, where I belong,” Dean grits out.  
  
“Bullshit,” Bobby snaps. “You can’t handle this with your brother, so you’re runnin’. You’re a lot of things, Dean, but I never once took you to be a coward.”  
  
“Sam can’t hunt like this!” Dean snaps back. He inhales deeply, trying his best to get control of his guilt and his temper. “Just… This is for the best, Bobby. He never wanted this life. I dragged him back into it. At least now, he has a way to get out.” He shakes his head, shouldering his duffel bag. “Help him get better, ok? Then make sure he gets his ass back to school.”  
  
“And what about when he remembers, Dean? He ain’t gonna be happy about this.”  
  
“He… You heard the doctor. He may never remember.”  
  
“And you know your brother well enough to know that that’s bullshit. He’ll push, Dean. ‘specially when you take off on him with no explanation.”  
  
“That… He thinks that we’re not close. That won’t be a problem.”  
  
“Damnit, boy!” Bobby growls. “The whole time you two’ve been here, while you’re out hidin’ in the yard, I’ve been in here with him, trying to help him. He… Even now, without really knowing you, he seeks you out. He feels that connection.”  
  
“Please, Bobby,” Dean whispers, his voice breaking. “I… I always wanted better for Sam. And for the first time, I’m actually not being selfish about him. I dragged him back because I couldn’t stand to be on my own anymore.” Even admitting it to Bobby makes him uncomfortable. It’s the truth though, even if Dean’s never really been able to face it. “This is his chance to go back, finish what he started, what he _wanted_. He doesn’t want m… this life. Not really.”  
  
“You’re wrong about this, son,” Bobby says softly. “I’ve known the two’a you for a lot of years. Sure, Sam may’ve wanted out when he was younger but that’s changed. _He’s_ changed.”  
  
“I… I can’t, Bobby,” Dean rasps. “’m sorry.”  
  
Dean practically runs out of the house, ignoring Bobby calling his name.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
Dean wasn’t lying. There is a hunt a few hours out of Sioux Falls; a simple salt n’ burn. Hell, the spirit hasn’t even dropped any bodies, just mostly causing mischief and havoc, more _Casper the Annoying Ghost_ than a vengeful spirit that needs to be taken down. But Dean still uses it as an excuse to get away and get back to work.  
  
After the spirit is gone and the shovel and sawed-off are packed away, Dean’s more than a little lost. He’d normally drag Sam to a bar, or to a liquor store, and have a few drinks, celebrate an easy hunt well done. He sits in the Impala by himself, resolutely not looking at Sam’s side of the car, and tries to breathe. He did this on his own before, he can do it again. Funny how it sounds like a lie even in his own head.  
  
Before he even realizes he’s doing it, Dean starts the car and drives until he runs into the first bar he can find. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kinda place, the kinda place he grew up in, watching Dad hustle pool then learning to do it on his own, one eye on Sammy where he sat in the corner doing his homework. There are a few people inside, scattered at tables and along the bar, mostly still and quiet, looking more like décor than patrons.  
  
The bartender is an older woman with soft brown hair that instantly reminds him of Ellen. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes and her voice is smoky and raspy, kinda sexy, and she has a bit of a heavy hand when she pours Dean the shot he orders. Now that’s thinking about it, the whole place kinda reminds him of the Roadhouse, only less hunters and more just normal, run-of-the-mill drunks. Thinking of Ellen and the Roadhouse makes him think of Jo and how hard she’d tried to flirt with him, to urge him into her pants even though she tried to pretend at first that she wasn’t interested. Another time, another place, he’d have taken her up on it and shown her the time of her life. The fact that he was more than a little afraid of Ellen was only the excuse he’d used to get out of it. He’s gone behind the backs of angry parents – and boyfriends – before and never batted an eye. No, his real reason was six feet and four inches of pure muscle and wounded puppy eyes. Thinking of Jo and what could’ve been but what he didn’t really want, makes him think about Sam and the bitch-face he wears every time they dropped in, how clingy he gets, how sweet he moans when Dean takes him back to their room and reminds him that, deep down, Dean is his and his alone.  
  
Dean swirls the amber liquid in the glass for a moment before slamming it back, hissing through his teeth at the familiar burn of cheap whiskey. The bartender – he heard someone else call her Nancy – drops the bottle down in front of him after pouring another, rests her folded arms on the bar then leans on them, pushing up her amble breasts. Dean never really had a thing for older women but she’s pretty in a subtle way; once a hard ten in the middle of South Dakota but a five or a six somewhere like LA or New York. This life has obviously been hard on her and she’s probably seen some stuff but she doesn’t wear it hard like some women would.  
  
“Lemme guess,” she rasps in that smoky tone, reminding him of whiskey and sex. “Girl troubles.”  
  
Dean snorts and almost chokes on his next shot. When he looks up, eyes watering slightly, she’s smirking. “What makes you think that?” he husks, voice sounding hoarse and used.  
  
“Usually a fair guess when someone who looks like you stumbles in here, looking like a kicked puppy.” She pauses and refills his glass and fills one of her own. He smiles despite himself when she raises her glass for a quick toast. The sound of glass clinking together makes him think of Sam. “So, am I right?”  
  
Dean – like most good drunks – falls prey to chatty bartenders. He always has. He’s not sure what it is about them that makes them so easy to talk to, but then again, he’s never thought too hard about it. Sometimes, it’s just easier to tell a stranger your problems then someone who knows you. The liquid courage doesn’t hurt.  
  
Still, friendly neighborhood bartender aside, he can’t really find it in himself to spill what’s on his mind completely. He’s lived his life on lies and half-truths. “Yeah, I, uh, I guess you could say that.”  
  
Nancy nods and grabs him a beer instead of another shot like he motioned for. He quirks an eyebrow but she just shrugs and shakes her head. “So, what? She cheat on you?”  
  
“No way,” Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sa- She’d never do something like that.”  
  
“You cheat on her?”  
  
“No,” he grunts, leaving it at that.  
  
Nancy purses her lips and tilts her head, soft brown curls falling over her shoulders. “Must be somethin’ then, sugar.”  
  
“I… I left her,” Dean damn-near whispers. “I… I screwed up and she got hurt. She deserves so much better.”  
  
Nancy narrows her eyes and leans a little closer, her cleavage accentuated by the button-down flannel she’s wearing. “She say she _wanted_ ‘better’?”  
  
Dean licks his lips and brings the beer up, draining half of it in one go, then shakes his head.  
  
“Go home to your girl, handsome,” she says kindly. “Don’t be a dumbass.”  
  
Dean huffs out a silent chuckle and drains the rest of his beer, motioning for another one. “Thanks for the advice, sweetheart,” he drawls. “But that’s easier said than done.”  
  
Nancy shrugs and sets his beer on the bar, giving him a smile and a wink before she heads to the other end of the bar to help someone else. “You never know.”  
  
Dean drinks a few more beers and silently watches Nancy work and interact with the rest of the barflies. He likes her.  
  
He’s been there for more than a few hours and he’s close to drunk, his mind warm and fuzzy, and the memories of Sam don’t hurt so bad like this. He jerks when he feels a small hand slide over his shoulder, turning to his right, locking eyes with a bottle-blonde with huge, sky-blue eyes. He must seriously be off his game if she managed to sneak up on him. There’s no way she’s been here the whole time, he would’ve seen her when he first walked in.  
  
She’s wearing a skirt short enough that if she bends over just right, he’s pretty damn sure he could see the color of her underwear – if she’s even wearing any – and a tank top that just barely covers the top swell of her breasts – no bra – and three inch black heels. She’s hot in an over-done sort of way, too blonde, too made-up, too fake, but she’s exactly what he used to go for when he was burying his feelings for Sam – both before they started sleeping together and after Sam left him – and he’s in some serious need for a distraction right now.  
  
Blood-red nails lightly scrape over the arm of his leather jacket and she bites down on her equally red bottom lip, looking up at him through heavily mascaraed eyelashes, trying for coy but missing by at least a mile.  
  
“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean drawls, turning up his charm and turning slightly toward her. Her breasts brush against his arm and even through layers of leather and cotton, he feels the warmth of the touch. Other than that one night with Cassie, he hasn’t slept with a woman since he and Sam got back on the road together. Sure, he’ll flirt – partly because it’s just in his nature but partly because he kinda loves how jealous Sam gets and how hot the sex is after – but in the end, he always goes home with Sam. She licks her lips slowly and scoots a little closer and Dean may be a little heartbroken right now and stupidly in love with his little brother but he’s human for fuck sake and she’s here and – judging by the serious ‘fuck me eyes’ – she’s willing.  
  
Dean buys her some fruity little drink and ignores the scowl on Nancy’s face when she literally slams the glass and another beer on the bar in front of them. Yup, she’s just like Ellen. “Ain’t there someplace else you should be, sugar?” Nancy asks pointedly.  
  
“Nah,” Dean smirks, wrapping his arm around the girl’s small waist. “Not at the moment, darlin’.”  
  
Nancy frowns and shakes her head and the flash of disappointment in her eyes hits Dean harder than it should considering he’s only known her a handful of hours.  
  
The blonde in his arms leans heavy against his side. “Name’s Danielle,” she practically purrs. “You can call me Danni.” It’s too close to Sammy and Dean’s stomach rolls and he almost loses his nerve.  
  
“Dean,” he replies, sliding his hand lower, cupping the jut of her hipbone. She tries for the usual generic flirting that he’s heard a million times and that she probably thinks she needs to fall back on. _You new around here? I’m **sure** I would’a remembered seein’ you before. Gonna be around long? Wanna get outta here? Go somewhere more private?_ It’s the last one that really gets his attention and he grabs his beer, downing the rest of it before sliding off his seat. “Absolutely,” he grins, wolfishly.  
 _  
This_ is something that Dean is familiar with and it’s all coming back to him as easily as riding a bike. Which is a bad analogy because Dean’s never actually ridden a bike in his life. But, the sentiment is still true.  
  
He leads her out to the parking lot, toward the Impala, trying to ignore the voice in his head – his heart – screaming at him that this is a Bad Fucking Idea – capital letters and all. She squeals a little when she sees the car, squirming as she runs one hand over the front quarter panel. Dean wonders if the sight of his car is making her wet.  
  
She leans back against the passenger’s side door – _Sammy’s door_ – and looks up at him. “Here,” she breathes. “Want it right here.”  
  
Honestly, he had no intention of having her anywhere near his car – _their home_ – had fully planned to take her across the parking lot to the conveniently-placed no-tell motel. She arches her back and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a wet, sloppy kiss that tastes like coconut and waxy lipstick. She’s too soft under his hands – something that he used to love, his favorite thing about women actually – and she’s too short, even in the heels. And she has no business writhing against his – _their_ – car like that. Since he started sleeping with Sam – both times – he’s only had sex with _Sam_ in, or on, his baby.  
  
But Dean is the king of denial and burying shit he doesn’t want to – can’t – think about.  
  
He presses her harder against the door, smirking when she mewls and brings one leg up, wrapping it around his hip. The sounds she makes are all wrong – too lilting and feminine – so Dean dips down and kisses her again, trying to stop them. He slides one hand down over the curve of her ass, down to the back of her thigh, then up, under her skirt. He’s not at all surprised to feel bare skin instead of more material.  
  
She pulls away from the kiss with a gasp, blue eyes round and lust-blown – not hazel and tip-tilted – and her plump lips are swollen and there’s lipstick smeared all over both of their lips. She rocks her hips forward, grinding against his barely-interested dick, and moans again. “Wanchu to fuck me, Dean,” she breathes. The voice is all wrong but the words hit him square in the gut – his heart. He’d heard them the last time he and Sam where together.  
  
It’s like a bucket of cold water dumps over Dean’s head. What little bit of arousal he was feeling – again, he’s only human; a red-blooded American male with a mostly-hot chick writhing against him – retreats so quickly it leaves him breathless.  
  
He pulls his hand out of her skirt, her wetness on his fingers making him want to puke, and stumbles away from her. She makes a confused noise in the back of her throat and tries to follow, one hand boldly reaching down between his legs and Dean hisses, stumbling back even more, both hands shaking when he gently pushes at her shoulders.  
  
“’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “I… I can’t.”  
  
“Dean?” she frowns, trying to move closer again.  
  
“I can’t,” he repeats and moves as quickly to the driver’s side of the car as his trembling legs will allow, ignoring the swirl of emotions on her face; confusion, frustration, hurt. The growl of Baby’s engine sounds like its mocking him when he starts her up and tears out of the lot.  
  
It’s the last time he tries to go to a bar to drink his troubles away.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
A week and two more salt n’ burns and three states later, Dean finds himself holed up in another shitty motel, a wicked bruise wrapped around his ribs and a slight concussion. He hunted by himself for almost the entire last two years that Sam was at Stanford but he’s gotten so used to having his brother around, having someone to cover his back, that he’s almost forgotten how to do it alone.  
  
Sam calls several times a day but Dean ignores it. Ignores all the voicemails Sam leaves too. He just can’t handle it, doesn’t know how to explain to Sam why he left, what he’s doing. But mostly, he just can’t hear Sam’s voice right now.  
  
The phone rings and Dean groans, glancing at the display even though he’s pretty sure it’s Sam. Again. To his surprise though, it’s Bobby. Worry hits him instantly and Dean snaps the phone open. “Is Sam ok?” he asks by way of greeting.  
  
“Depends,” Bobby drawls. Dean frowns, hearing what sounds way too much like Sam yelling and… crying? in the background. “He remembers, Dean,” Bobby adds simply.  
  
Three little words and Dean’s world skids to a halt.  
  
He hadn’t actually thought that Sam would remember. Hell, he actually _hoped_ that Sam wouldn’t. He sure as shit hadn’t thought that it would happen a mere week after he left. But knowing his brother, it happened just the way Bobby said it would. Sam probably pushed and pushed until he could figure it out.  
  
“He…” Dean stops, clears his too-tight throat. “What happened?”  
  
“Woke up hollerin’ about fire and Jess and demons,” Bobby sighs. “I… I tried to calm him down but it’s like once the damn burst, everything came back. He… He lost consciousness for a while and he’s been alternately ranting and crying. Askin’ for you,” he adds pointedly.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean growls, squeezing his eyes closed. Sam’s shouts have stopped, leaving just the muffled sounds of sobs. Dean’s heart breaks right along with his brother. “Is he… Is he ok?”  
  
“No he’s not ok, you dumbass,” Bobby grits out. “He’s hurtin’, both physically and emotionally. He’s confused and upset and more than anything, he just wants his brother.”  
  
“Bobby…”  
  
“No,” Bobby cuts him off. “We tried it your way, Dean. Even though I was against it from the jump. Now you know as well as I do that if you don’t come back here, Sam’ll just end up trackin’ you down. And believe me when I tell you that it’ll be worse in the long run if that happens.”  
  
“I… ‘m about a day and a half out,” Dean mutters.  
  
“Best git to drivin’ then, boy,” Bobby says firmly. “And Dean? Hurry.”  
  
Ignoring the pain in his ribs and his pounding head, Dean drives. He makes it to Sioux Falls in just over a day. He pulls into the lot and parks in front of the house but doesn’t turn the car off or make any move to get out. He’s frozen, unsure of what he’s going to walk into and he hates going into _any_ situation blind. But this is so much worse.  
  
The front door opens and Dean looks up, his breath hitching in his chest when Sam stumbles out the door. He looks like hell – his eyes hollow and his skin sickly and pale, his hair messy and Dean can see the strain of the last week, especially the last few days, in every line of his body – but he’s still the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever been lucky enough to see.  
  
Before he can do anything, Sam reaches the car and wrenches open the driver’s side door. Dean tenses, not sure what the hell to expect, but he’s sure as hell not prepared to have Sam awkwardly throw himself at Dean’s chest. The angle is all wrong and neither can really get a good hold, but Dean still returns the embrace, cradling Sam against his body as best as he can.  
  
“Dean,” Sam murmurs, his whole body trembling slightly. “I didn’t… I thought something happened to you.” He pulls away, tears pooling in his eyes, his lower lips quivering. “You asshole!” he adds, tearing himself away from Dean. The punch – while kind of expected – still takes Dean by surprise.  
  
With a sigh, Dean shuts off the engine and forces himself out of the car, ready to face whatever Sam throws at him. God knows he deserves whatever it is, and so much more.  
  
Sam’s standing there, his shoulders and chest heaving, tears streaking down his cheeks, his fists clenched at his side. “I thought you were fuckin’ dead,” Sam rasps. He shakes his head, inhaling deeply. “What the hell, Dean?”  
  
“Sammy…”  
  
“No,” Sam growls, his eyes sliding closed for a second. “I… I needed you and you ditched me.”  
  
“I left you with Bobby so you could get better, Sam,” Dean reasons.  
  
“I called when I started remembering,” Sam whispers, his voice cracking. “I was confused and alone and I _needed_ you.”  
  
“Bobby was here,” Dean says weakly.  
  
“I needed _you_!” Sam snaps. “Why… Why’d you…” Sam cuts himself off, swallowing thickly. “Why, Dean?” he whispers.  
  
“I wanted to give you a chance to get outta the life, Sam,” Dean grits out. “This was your chance to… I don’t know, go back to school, have your normal life.”  
  
“I don’t… That’s not what I want, Dean,” Sam mutters. “I told you that I wanted to hunt. To find the thing that killed Mom and Jess. To finish what Dad started. There… There’s nothin’ left for me at school.” He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and squares his shoulders. “I wanna hunt,” he says firmly when he reopens his eyes. “If you don’t want me on the road with you, that’s fine. I’ll do it by myself.”  
  
“That’s not… Damnit, Sam,” Dean growls, rubbing one hand down his face. “That was never what this was about, ok? It was never about not wanting you around. I… I was trying to do what’s best for you.”  
  
“By making the decision for me?” Sam asks incredulously. “That’s not your choice to make. You had no right.”  
  
“I know,” Dean whispers. “And I’m sorry, Sammy. I really am. I thought it was the right thing to do.”  
  
Sam’s jaw clenches and he nods briefly. “You were wrong,” he says simply. “If we… If we’re gonna do this, I have to know, Dean.”  
  
“Know what?” Dean asks quietly.  
  
“Is there anything else I don’t know?”  
  
Dean frowns, his head tilting to the side. “I… I thought you remembered everything?” he asks wearily.  
  
“No, not… everything. There are still pieces that are missing. But is it, I mean, is there anything else… big, that I don’t know?”  
  
Dean doesn’t know how he knows but he realizes that Sam doesn’t remember about _them_. Ever since they started this… thing up between them again, even when they’re fighting, there’s a look in Sam’s eyes, a softness, that isn’t there. So, even though it breaks Dean’s heart, he shakes his head. “No,” he rasps. “Nothin’ big, Sammy.”  
  
Sam exhales shakily and nods. “Ok.” He waivers a bit, reaching out to steady himself against the car, blood trickling out of his nose. Dean rushes forward, wrapping one arm around Sam’s waist. “’m ok,” Sam slurs.  
  
“Like hell you are,” Dean grunts, holding most of his brother’s considerable height and weight. “You pushed yourself too damn hard.”  
  
“Had’ta,” Sam whispers. “You weren’t here. Had’ta know why…”  
  
Bile burns the back of his throat when Sam goes even heavier in his arms and Dean notices that he’s unconscious. “Fuck,” he growls, shifting his hold on Sam, trying to either get him to the house or the car. His ribs scream in protest but he somehow manages to get them close enough to the porch that Bobby must hear the commotion and comes out to help. Between the two of them, they get Sam sprawled out on the couch and Dean collapses in the chair next to him, his gritty eyes sliding closed. Bobby leaves without a word.  
  
Dean jerks awake suddenly, not even realizing that he’d fallen asleep, to find Sam sitting up on the couch, silently studying him. He feels vaguely like a bug under a microscope. “What?” he snaps, too tired and sore and heartsick to soften his words or his voice.  
  
“You look like hell,” Sam says softly. Dean snorts a humorless laugh and shakes his head, his eyes sliding closed again. Like Sam has any room to talk. “What’ve you been doing, Dean?”  
  
“Hunting,” Dean answers simply.  
  
“By yourself,” Sam sighs, more statement than question.  
  
“Did it for a long time while you were away,” Dean mutters, his eyes still closed. He doesn’t want Sam to know how bad the last week sucked. Doesn’t want to get into how bad those two years on his own were, how he just couldn’t take the loneliness anymore and that was what lead him to Sam’s apartment and his perfect little life in the middle of the night.  
  
He hears Sam sigh then the protest of the old springs when he pushes himself up off the couch. He swears he feels fingertips slide across his shoulders before he hears Sam walk upstairs.  
  
Dean wants to leave immediately.  
  
He’s uncomfortable for the first time _ever_ at Bobby’s and even a day of inactivity is grating on his nerves. Sam is Sam again but he’s still _not_ and Dean doesn’t really know how to deal with that. So, he wants to do what he always does when he doesn’t know what to do; hunt, kill something.  
  
Sam catches sight of the bruise along his ribs and outright refuses to let them leave. Dean threatens to take off again on his own. Sam threatens to follow. Bobby sits back, his arms crossed, and an amused smirk pulling up his lips.  
  
“What?” they snap at him simultaneously.  
  
Bobby laughs outright at that and pushes himself off the wall he was leaning against and heads toward the back door. “You two sound just like you did when you were kids,” he says fondly. “Bickerin’ and arguin’ just to bicker and argue.” He pauses and looks pointedly between them. “You’ll stay here ‘til Dean’s ribs heal and Sam’s head gets a little better. _Neither_ of you will run off again without the other.” With that, he leaves, the back door swinging shut behind him as he heads out into the yard. Dean feels vaguely like a kid that just got scolded by their father. If their father had been a different man, that is.  
  
Sam’s eyes are wide when Dean looks over at his brother again, his brow furrowed in confusion. Dean hears himself laugh and claps Sam on the shoulder as he passes. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.  
  
  
Chapter four  
  


Dean should really know by now not to think that things can’t get worse. Especially when it comes to Sam.  
  
They stay at Bobby’s until they’re both relatively healed up and even Sam’s starting to get antsy. Dean finds them a fairly simple salt ‘n burn, one that Sammy could’ve handled when he was ten. It somehow turns into a cluster-fuck of epic proportions.  
  
Sam doesn’t remember the hunt that got him hurt but Dean does. And when Sam doesn’t react quickly enough and gets tossed a few yards across the cemetery, he crawls out of the half-dug grave and dives for his brother, ready to say screw the ghost, screw the job, and bundle his brother in cotton wool and move them to Siberia or something.  
  
They’re terribly out of sync with each other and Sam’s seriously off his game, making rookie mistakes that could get them killed easy. Dean manages to drag Sam back to the grave with him and digs until his shoulders and back are screaming at him but he finally – fucking finally – gets to the coffin and torches the bastard.  
  
Sam is sullen and quiet on the way back to the motel, gingerly cradling his still-cast wrist with his other hand, his forehead creased with pain. They fight and argue like they haven’t since Sam was fourteen and they were already starting to fight the feelings that they had for each other.  
  
Dean doesn’t want to hunt, not with the missteps from Sam, but Sam, of course, is adamant. They win more than they lose, somehow, but they end up more banged up than they usually do from simple hunts. Sam’s moods swing violently from one extreme to the other, screaming and fighting with Dean, hating him with every ounce of his being, to clinging to him and sobbing, his face buried in Dean’s chest like he hasn’t since he was in single digits and it was still okay to seek out his brother’s comfort. Dean lets him, even though touching and holding Sam right now is one of the hardest things Dean has ever had to do in his life, especially when he’s that upset. He wants nothing more than to pull him closer and wipe away the tears and kiss him until he smiles again.  
  
It doesn’t help that Sam knows him well enough to know that something is wrong. Dean tries to hide it, tries to act the way he would’ve before things changed between them but it’s not easy to change nearly ten years of instinct and behavior. And the fact that he clams up when Sam inevitably asks makes it about a million times worse.  
  
They’re three weeks back out on the road when the other shoe drops. Really, Dean should have been expecting it. It _always_ drops.  
  
They’ve finally started to find their rhythm with each other again, hunts going a little more smoothly, but Sam’s still unpredictable at the best of times. They take out a small nest of vamps without much fanfare but Dean’s covered in blood and calls first shower as soon as they’re in the room. Sam flops down on the edge of his bed, staring resolutely at the wall, ignoring Dean completely. With a sigh, Dean closes the bathroom door behind him.  
  
When Dean comes out of the shower, Sam’s still sitting on the edge of his bed, his jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists in his lap. He’s seen this look before, mostly when Sam was a teenager and pissed off about something Dad said or did, but it’s very rarely ever been directed at him.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean asks carefully, a little unsure. Sam’s been mostly unpredictable since he got hurt, his mood swings wild and more violent then when he was in the throes of puberty and hated Dad, Dean, the life, basically everything, so Dean’s learned to be cautious.  
  
Sam’s eyes snap to his and Dean really kind of wished that he’d ignored his brother and his mood. The look in those normally bright hazel eyes is enough to make him take an involuntary step back and wish like hell that he was wearing something more substantial than a pair of boxer briefs.  
  
“You lied to me,” Sam states, tone deceptively steady and even – another wonderful trait that he picked up from their father. No matter how much they butted heads and Sam seemed to hate the man, they sure are an awful lot alike. “Again.”  
  
“No I didn’t,” Dean replies childishly. If Sam wants to revert back to bratty teenager, Dean can too.  
  
“Yes, you did,” Sam argues, still in that same infuriating tone.  
  
“Ok, fine,” Dean sighs, rubbing one hand down his face. “What did I supposedly lie to you about now?”  
  
“I asked you, Dean. Specifically asked if there was something else that you weren’t telling me, that I didn’t remember. And you… You said no.”  
  
Dean’s heart skips a beat or two then starts pounding dangerously against his ribs, adrenaline and his fight or flight response kicking in big time. He’s not sure _what_ exactly Sam is talking about but there’s probably only one thing that he could be remembering that would possibly piss him off this bad. And Dean’s not exactly sure how he feels about that. The part of him that’s still Sam’s big brother, that’s felt guilty about this for nearly ten years – and feels even more guilty because he doesn’t feel guilty enough to stop it – hopes like hell that Sam isn’t remembering. But the part of him that’s been in love with Sam since before he can even remember just misses the hell out of him and wants to take Sam into his arms and soothe over all the hurt and beg Sam to forgive him.  
  
Dean’s never really been a coward. He faces most things head on and doesn’t look back. But he can admit in his own mind that the way he’s handled this whole situation is the most cowardly he’s ever been. And still he takes the chicken shit way out. “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about, dude.”  
  
Sam’s nostrils flare and the muscle in his jaw ticks and his eyes narrow. Dean’s always known that Sam inherited Dad’s volatile temper, same as him, but the sheer amount of anger and venom in his gaze honestly still manages to surprise him. He kind of almost feels sorry for the piece of shit monsters they go after, having to face a seriously pissed-off Sam Winchester.  
  
Sam licks his lips and nods, almost to himself. Dean tracks him wearily as he pushes himself up off the mattress and closes the distance between them. Dean doesn’t have time to think – hell, barely has time to _breathe_ – before he’s being slammed into the wall next to the bathroom door and Sam’s pressing up against him, long and muscular. Dean can smell him, that sweet little brother, Sammy-scent, and can feel every inch of his six foot four frame. He squeezes his eyes closed and bites back a moan. He hasn’t felt Sam like this in _months_ , since the night he got hurt, and his body betrays him. His body _knows_ this touch, craves it, needs it like fucking oxygen.  
  
Sam rolls his hips just slightly, just enough to feel Dean’s half-hard cock, and Dean makes the smallest noise in the back of his throat. Sam hovers in front of him, his warm, moist breath hitting Dean’s lips, making them tingle. “Look at me,” Sam growls and Dean feels the vibration through both of their chests.  
  
Sam has always had power over Dean. For all that he’s the big brother and the more dominant of the two of them, Sam owns him. Has since the kid was freaking born. And they both damn-well know it.  
  
Dean’s eyes flutter open and lock with dark, stormy-green and his throat goes dry. Sam’s lips tremble slightly – the only thing betraying any emotion besides anger and telling Dean that Sam’s not quite sure of himself – and Dean’s eyes widen when Sam leans forward and brushes their lips together in a parody of a kiss.  
  
Dean’s body once again ignores the screaming in his brain and arches just slightly into Sam, his fingers twitching against Sam’s hipbones. But it’s enough. Sam feels it.  
  
When Sam pulls away it feels roughly equivalent to ripping off a limb and Dean gasps with how much it fucking _hurts_. Sam stalks away from him, one hand running through his hair, the other rubbing over his chest like it hurts, like he can rub away the pain. Dean knows how he feels.  
  
“I knew it,” Sam grits out, finally some emotion in his tone. Dean’s kind of missing the steady monotone from before. He turns around and the anger is still there but underneath is the most heartbreakingly devastated look and Dean wants to curl up in a ball and die. “You…” Sam’s voice breaks but he clears his throat and forces himself to continue, despite the roughness, “You don’t think that _this_ was something that I needed to know?”  
  
“Sammy,” Dean sighs, shaking his head.  
  
“No,” Sam cuts him off. “Don’t… Don’t even fuckin’ say it, Dean. I mean it.”  
  
“I… C’mon, Sam. Don’t… You know I was just…”  
  
“Doin’ what’s right,” Sam interrupts, tears pooling in his eyes. “That what you were gonna say, Dean? How could… You don’t get to make that choice. It’s _my_ life. And I had the right to know.”  
  
“You didn’t remember for a reason, Sam,” Dean says softly. “And besides, that’s not exactly an easy conversation to have when you barely remembered me, let alone… that.” Sam glares at him but Dean continues. “Seriously, can you imagine having that talk? I didn’t wanna… I couldn’t risk it. I didn’t want you to be disgusted about it, about _me_. At least this way I knew I’d still have my brother.”  
  
Sam snorts out a humorless laugh and shakes his head again. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, both hands running through his hair this time.  
  
“’m serious, Sam,” Dean continues. “You… You remembered everything else, even the bad shit. So there… There had to be a reason for that…”  
  
“You know,” Sam cuts in, like Dean’s not even talking, like they’re discussing the weather. “I can’t quite remember what Jessica’s hair smelled like after she showered. Or how she looked at me when I got up the nerve to tell her I loved her for the first time,” Sam’s voice breaks again but Dean doesn’t stop him. Sam never talks about Jess, even back then he didn’t, and even though it hurts like hell, Dean figures he deserves this. “So yeah, I remember a lot, but not everything just yet. Twenty-three years of memories, bro. ‘s a lot to go through. But,” he stops, takes a few steps closer to Dean, his eyes glittering, “You wanna know what I _do_ remember? What I remember most? You,” he whispers. “Every-Goddamn-thing about you.”  
  
“Of course, ‘m your brother,” Dean tries to reason.  
  
“Not just that,” Sam snaps, snorting out another one of those humorless laughs. “I remember what you were wearing the first time I kissed you and I remember where we were the first time you fucked me. I… I remember the look on _your_ face the first time I got up the nerve to tell you I love you.”  
  
Dean swallows thickly, tears stinging his eyes. “I… I was tryin’ to protect you,” he argues weakly.  
  
“By taking that away from me?” Sam’s voice breaks again and he shakes his head, a few tears finally breaking free to slip down his cheeks. “You had no right.”  
  
“Sam…”  
  
“Don’t you think I should’ve had a say in this?”  
  
“You’ve always wanted to be normal, Sam,” Dean damn-near whispers. “I was giving you the chance. Letting you have a do-over.”  
  
“Who said I ever wanted that?” Sam inhales deeply and straightens his shoulders. “I can’t… I can’t do this. In fact, I can’t even look at you right now.”  
  
“Sammy…”  
  
“No,” Sam growls. “It was _my_ choice, Dean. Back then and… after we got back together. It should’ve been this time too.” Sam turns away from him and grabs his jacket, roughly pulling it on.  
  
Dean panics, that all-too-familiar pain of watching Sam walk away from him creeping through his veins. “What’re you doin’?”  
  
“Going out,” Sam bites out. “Don’t wait up.” With that he walks out the door, slamming it behind him. Dean flinches and slumps back against the wall, rubbing his hands across his face.  
  
He can’t believe he’s fucked up this badly.  
  
Sam stays gone for hours. Despite his final words, of course Dean waits up, laying in the dark on the bed closest to the door, watching it intently for the moment Sam comes back. If he comes back.  
  
Despite waiting for it, Dean still jumps when Sam stumbles into the room, bringing in a burst of cold air and the pungent smell of whiskey. Dean frowns, watching his brother move drunkenly forward, hovering next to the side of Dean’s bed. Getting drunk is usually Dean’s response to things, not Sam’s. Sam broods and mopes and throws Dean bitch-faces but he’s never done this.  
  
“You’re an asshole,” Sam slurs, weaving as he stands not a foot away from Dean. He can smell the scent of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol and he barely bites back the urge to demand that Sam go and shower away the lingering scent of whatever bar he went to.  
  
“Go to bed, Sammy,” Dean makes himself say instead of responding. Sam’s right and they both know it.  
  
“Fuck you, Dean,” is Sam’s eloquent reply as he stumbles to his own bed and falls into it, face first. Dean turns his head enough to watch Sam squirm until he’s comfortable, biting the inside of his jaw until he tastes blood when Sam’s hips shift against the mattress and he shoves his arms under his pillow.  
  
  
Chapter five  
  


A fucking ghoul.  
  
Dean hadn’t wanted to look into the case that Sam dug up – random bodies being snatched from the local cemetery – but as usual lately, Sam’s insistence, and his continually violent mood swings, won out. It was pretty plain to see that it was a ghoul right from the start and they tracked it to an abandoned house on the edge of the cemetery, Sam taking it out with a quick, clean shot to the head. Dean didn’t even have time to be proud of him for the shot before he was watching Sam get tossed into a wall.  
  
They hadn’t realized there was a second one.  
  
Sam scrambles to his feet and charges forward, gun drawn. “Sam down!” Dean yells.  
  
And of course, because he’s _Sam_ , his bratty little brother ignores him, firing at the ghoul at the same time it tosses Sam across the room again. Sam’s shot barely hits its mark, still enough to kill the fucker but Dean still fires a whole clip into its head before falling to his knees next to Sam. His shaky hands move restlessly over his brother’s body, the whole scene entirely too familiar and Dean feels bile crawling up the back of his throat. Sam gasps and sits up, swiping absently at the blood trickling down the side of his face from a small cut on the side of his face. The rush of adrenaline seeps out of Dean’s system quickly, leaving him angry and exhausted and still a little terrified. Sam pushes himself to his feet and heads out to the car, completely ignoring Dean in the process.  
  
The ride back to the motel is thick with uncomfortable silence as Dean seethes in the driver’s seat and Sam stares resolutely out the side window. Dean stalks into the room behind Sam, anger and fear swirling dangerously through his whole body still. Sam, strangely oblivious all of a sudden, merely strips off his jacket and tosses it onto his bed and heads toward the bathroom, just like it’s any other night.  
  
Dean growls and grabs his wrist, forcefully pulling Sam back. He must catch Sam off-guard because Sam stumbles back into him and Dean’s able to wrestle him down into one of the rickety chairs at the equally rickety table.  
  
“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean demands as he grabs the side of Sam’s face, his touch tender despite the emotions still rolling through him. Sam opens his mouth, no doubt about to say something that will just manage to piss Dean off even more. Dean shakes his head and drops to his knees, fingers brushing away the long strands of Sam’s hair. There’s a gash right at his temple but that’s not what catches Dean’s eye. This close, he can see the barely-there scar that runs along Sam’s hairline, all the way down to the curve of his jaw.  
  
Bile burns the back of Dean’s throat and he swallows thickly, belatedly realizing that he’s just barely running his fingers through Sam’s hair. Sam frowns down at him and tries to shake him off but Dean won’t let go, _can’t_ let go.  
  
“What the hell were you thinkin’?” Dean grits out, his voice raw and low.  
  
“I was thinkin’ that I was savin’ your sorry ass,” Sam snarks back, all petulant, bratty little brother. “You’re welcome, by the way.”  
  
“I had the fucker!” Dean shouts, finally forcing himself to let go of Sam’s face but he doesn’t move from kneeling between Sam’s slightly spread legs. “When I tell you to drop, you drop. What… What the fuck, Sam?” he repeats, swallowing thickly around all the emotion building up in him. When he saw Sam hit the ground all he could think about was the hunt that got him hurt, that ultimately took Sam away from him, even though he’s still sitting right here.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes so hard it’s got to be at least a little painful and gives Dean that smug, superior look that he perfected long before Stanford. “Whatever, Dean,” he mutters, trying to get up but Dean won’t move. “C’mon,” Sam sighs. “Move, damnit.”  
  
“No,” Dean growls, reaching over toward the table for the weapons duffel, digging through it one-handed until he finds the first aid kit. “You’re freakin’ hurt,” _again_ , his mind unhelpfully adds, “and whether you like it or not, ‘mma patch you up.”  
  
“’m not hurt, Dean,” Sam snaps back. “’s just a cut.”  
  
“I don’t care.” Dean huffs out a breath and shakes his head, licking his lips. “Please, Sammy,” he sighs. “I know… Look, I know things’re fucked up, I do. Believe me. But just… Let me, ok?”  
  
Dean’s not sure what it is, if it’s the look in his eyes or the emotion in his tone but Sam nods and slumps further down in the chair, his eyes softer when he looks up at Dean. “Ok,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering closed when Dean brushes the hair off his forehead.  
  
They’re both quiet while Dean works, which gives his brain too much time to think. Since the night Sam remembered about them, Sam’s kept his distance. This is the closest they’ve been and Dean wants to melt into his brother’s warmth and try to fix what’s broken, inside himself and with them.  
  
He gently runs his fingers over the bandage on Sam’s temple when he’s done, shifting over slightly to trail down the scar that no one else but him would be able to see. Sam’s breath hitches and his legs shift, his thighs tightening minutely around Dean’s hips. Dean clenches his jaw and tries to steady his shaky fingers.  
  
“All done,” he rasps.  
  
Sam’s eyes flutter open again and lock with his and for a moment, Dean’s lost in the mesmerizing, ever-changing swirl of color. Sam’s eyes have always reflected his emotions better than anything, the color changing depending on what Sam’s feeling. The dark, glittering hazel is so familiar that it hits Dean like a punch to the solar plexus.  
  
“Sammy,” he murmurs, not even aware that he opened his mouth until he heard his own voice.  
  
Sam licks his lips and reaches up, tentatively rubbing the pads of his fingers over Dean’s cheek. “We’ve got to stop this,” Sam says softly.  
“Things… Something has to change. We can’t go on like this, Dean.”  
  
“What,” Dean croaks out, pausing to clear his too-tight throat. “What’d’ya mean?”  
  
“This is killing me. Us. We’re… We’re not… We can’t keep goin’ like this, man.”  
  
Dean closes his eyes, unable to handle the soft, earnest, puppy-look in Sam’s. “What’d’ya want me to do? You wanna go our separate ways?” Dean forces himself to ask even though it kills him. Sure, he misses Sam like breathing but he’d rather have him there, even as just a brother, than not have him at all.  
  
Sam huffs out an aggravated sounding sigh and his hand slides down, cupping Dean’s jaw. “No,” he whispers. “The last thing I want is to split up. Hell, Dean, that’s the last thing I _ever_ wanted.” He leans forward, their foreheads pressing together lightly. “I just want my big brother back,” he breathes, barely a sound.  
  
“’m right here,” Dean whispers back.  
  
“Not entirely.” Sam’s legs squeeze him a little tighter and Dean feels himself leaning forward, drawn in as always by the heat of Sam’s body. “I want all of you back.”  
  
Dean’s jaw clenches and he squeezes his eyes closed tighter, one hand sliding over Sam’s hip without direct consent from his brain. “Sammy,” he rasps. “We… I can’t.”  
  
“I know you’ve always felt guiltier about this than I ever will,” Sam says softly, gently. “But I’m just… I’m just askin’ you not to. ‘m a big boy now, Dean.” Sam huffs a sigh at Dean’s soft snicker. “Not what I meant and so not the time, dude.”  
  
Dean forces himself to pull away enough to open his eyes and look at Sam. His brother is giving him that same earnest look that he’s been giving Dean since he was five and trying to convince Dean of something, even though Dean almost always knew better.  
  
“I can’t… I can’t make you feel better about what happened when we were kids,” Sam continues, tone still soft and quiet. “Even though you shouldn’t feel bad about it. I knew what I wanted back then, Dean. And I still do. I… Fuck, man, I’ve wanted you since I knew what my dick was for. And I’ve loved you even longer. But that… I’m twenty-four years old, Dean. I’ve got a mind of my own and I know what I’m doing.”  
  
Dean smiles sadly and squeezes Sam’s hip. “But if we hadn’t…”  
  
“Shh,” Sam whispers. “Don’t even go there, man. There’s nothing that says we wouldn’t have still ended up here, just like this, if we hadn’t when we were younger.” Sam inhales deeply and slides both hands over Dean’s shoulders, down his arms. “You didn’t do anything _to_ me. I was a willing participant in every-damn-thing we did, then and now.” He bites down on his bottom lip, his cheeks tinting a slight shade of pink. “My first fantasies were of you, my first wet dream, the first time I touched myself. It… It’s always been you, Dean.”  
  
“Girl,” Dean teases, voice weak and watery.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes but a small smile quirks at the corners of his lips, showing off just a barely-there hint of his dimples. “Call me whatever you want, ‘s still true. I… I love you, Dean. And not just because you’re my brother and not just because of the way we grew up and what happened when we were younger. Since we’ve been back out on the road together, I’ve gotten to know you all over again. And I fell in love with you all over again. I never wanted the do-over because I don’t need it. I had one.” Sam licks his lips and there are tears shining in his eyes. “We were apart for four years, Dean,” he continues thickly. “I got to taste normal and I never… I didn’t fit in there any better than I did anywhere else. The only place I’ve ever felt right and safe was with you.”  
  
A tear escapes the corner of Sam’s eye and Dean reaches up, brushing it away with the pad of his thumb, his palm cupping Sam’s cheek.  
Sam leans into the touch, his breath hitching slightly. “Please, Dean,” he whispers, his eyes sliding closed. “I miss you. So much.”  
  
“Me too, baby boy,” Dean breathes.  
  
Sam makes a small, almost-wounded sound in the back of his throat and grabs the back of Dean’s neck, sliding their lips together. It’s messy and frantic, desperate, but so achingly perfect that if Dean was the type, it’d make him cry.  
  
Sam’s still muttering against his lips, unintelligible words and gibberish but Dean still gets the jest. “Hey. Ok, shh. Calm down,” Dean whispers against Sam’s lips, petting one hand through his hair, the other rubbing soothing, calming circles over the small of his back. “’m right here, baby. ‘s ok. Calm down, Sammy.”  
  
Sam’s eyes are wet and glassy when he pulls away but dark, his lips spit-slick and swollen and Dean barely bites back a groan. “Please, Dean,” he repeats.  
  
“Yeah, ok. I got’cha. It’s ok.”  
  
Dean’s arms slide around Sam completely, pulling his little brother against his chest. Sam’s whole body is trembling – or maybe that’s him, he really can’t be sure – but taking care of Sam, giving him whatever he needs has always been in Dean’s blood. He trails his lips down the side of Sam’s face, teasing at the corner of his mouth before sliding their lips together again. He struggles with both Sam and himself to keep it calm, simple, but he’s quickly losing control of a situation he never had any control of to begin with.  
  
Sam whimpers against his lips, his fingers clawing at Dean’s back as his thrusts his hips forward just slightly. Dean’s always been  
helpless in the face of Sam’s need, even though it still surprises him from time to time that what Sam seems to need is _him_.  
  
Pushing himself to his feet, bent over awkwardly to enable him to still kiss Sam, Dean manages to urge Sam up as well, walking him backward toward his bed. Dean tries to break the kiss, needing to not only breathe but to get Sam naked, but Sam has other plans. Impatient, shaky hands push his jacket and over-shirt off his shoulders and Dean lets go of Sam long enough for them to be pushed off, letting them drop to the floor at their feet. Sam’s hands then drop to the hem of his t-shirt, pushing up under it, both warm palms sliding over his abs, up his chest. Dean groans when Sam’s fingers brush against his nipples and he grabs the back of Sam’s hair, gently pulling his brother back.  
  
They both gasp when their lips part and Dean roughly rips his own t-shirt off and tosses it over his shoulder. Sam hesitates for a split-second, breathing a soft, “Fuck” before he follows suit and tears off his own shirts. It’s a mad scramble at that point, both of them trying to remove their own boots, jeans and underwear while simultaneously trying to help each other. They get tangled up together more than once and Dean can’t help but chuckle, lightly grabbing Sam’s wrists to stop the frantic movement.  
  
“Easy, Tiger,” he murmurs, letting go of Sam’s wrists. He slides his hands down over his hips and pushes Sam’s jeans and boxer briefs down his long legs, steadying him when he steps out of them. With a hand to the middle of Sam’s chest, he pushes gently and watches as Sam falls onto the mattress, landing with a soft bounce. He quickly finishes stripping himself then crawls onto the bed, fitting between his brother’s spread thighs the way that he’s never fit with anyone else. It’s always mesmerized him the way that Sam’s body seems made to fit him perfectly, like they’re two halves carved from the same whole.  
  
Sam claws at Dean’s back, bucking up against him, their bare, hard lengths rubbing together. Dean barely bites back a moan and drops his hips, both hands coming up to grab the sides of Sam’s face. “Shh,” Dean whispers. “Sammy, stop it.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, eyes big and round and needy where he’s staring up at Dean. “Please. Need you.”  
  
“’m right here, Sammy. ‘m not goin’ anywhere.” Sam licks his lips and inhales, deep and shaky, but Dean feels some of the tension draining from his muscles. “That’s it, baby.”  
  
Dean dips down and slides his lips against Sam’s, immediately sweeping his tongue forward when Sam opens up to him, a moan reverberating between them. Sam’s hands are still a touch too frantic, his kisses a bit too needy, and Dean gets it, he really does, he’s pretty damn frantic and needy himself, but he’s got to slow this down, take control, if for no other reason than he doesn’t want to hurt Sam – or for Sam to hurt himself.  
  
Dean digs his fingers into the sides of Sam’s head a little harder and takes over the kiss, gentling the slide of their lips and tongues. Sam whines a little in the back of his throat but relaxes a little more, his thigh muscles not squeezing Dean’s hips to the point of pain and his hands sliding up and down Dean’s back instead of clawing at him. Dean hums in approval and pulls away, sweeping Sam’s hair off his forehead with one hand, the other sliding down Sam’s chest. He pulls back, shushing Sam softly when he whimpers, and shifts so that he’s spread out on the mattress next to his brother, one leg tangled between both of Sam’s.  
  
“Do you remember what happened before you got hurt?” Dean asks softly. “At the motel before we left?”  
  
Sam licks his lips and narrows his eyes, his head tilting to the side slightly. “We… We fooled around,” Sam whispers slowly, like the memory is just coming back to him. Dean gives him a soft smile and nods, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of Sam’s lips. “I… I wanted you to fuck me,” he continues, voice still soft, his cheeks flushing pink. “We didn’t have time.”  
  
“Right,” Dean nods, his hand sliding down to Sam’s abs, fingertips barely teasing through the trail of hair below his belly button. “You remember what I promised you?”  
  
Sam’s quiet for a few moments, obviously trying to remember. He shakes his head, a mix of frustration and anger and sadness swirling in his gaze. “No,” he breathes. “I… ‘m sorry, Dean…”  
  
“Shh,” Dean whispers. “You got nothin’ to be sorry for, baby boy.” His hand slides over, palming the sharp jut of Sam’s hipbone. He leans closer, hovering over Sam’s ear, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath it. “I promised to spread you out and spend hours fuckin’ you inta the mattress,” he rasps. Sam inhales sharply, breath escaping on a moan. “Never got to keep that promise. ‘m gonna now though.” Dean’s hand slips down further, palming the already heavy swell of Sam’s balls, tips of his fingers just barely brushing the thin skin behind his sac.  
  
“Dean,” Sam gasps, turning his head toward Dean’s chest, his teeth sinking into Dean’s pec.  
  
“Like the sound’a that, little brother?” Dean murmurs.  
“Oh, God,” Sam moans, arching his back when Dean’s fingers slip down just a fraction more, teasing just barely along his rim. “Dean, please.”  
  
As much as Dean wants this, Sam’s already strung out beneath him and it’s been fucking _months_ since he’s touched his brother, and he’s beginning to doubt the brilliance of doing this now. Or even his ability to.  
  
Dean pulls away from Sam completely, hoping to give them both a few minutes to calm down so he can at least try to keep his promise. Sam makes a soft, disagreeing sound and reaches for him. “Gonna get the lube, baby,” Dean says softly, pressing a quick kiss to Sam’s lips before forcing himself to get up off the mattress.  
  
He digs through his duffel until he finds the bottle all the way at the bottom – no surprise there, he hasn’t actually had use for it in the last few months – then turns back toward the bed, freezing at the sight before him. Sam’s spread out on his back, his legs parted invitingly, one arm thrown over his head and resting on the pillow, his other hand lazily, loosely, stroking his cock. His head is turned toward Dean, his eyes dark and pleading and his lips parted slightly, shiny-wet like he just licked them. Dean’s heart thuds painfully against his ribs once, twice, then picks up a jack-rabbit fast beat, his own cock twitching and leaking in time with his brother’s. Sam looks like pure, unadulterated sin and Dean can’t believe that he tried to fool himself into believing that he could live without this, without _him_.  
  
A part of Dean will always feel guilty about wanting – loving – his baby brother like he does. There’s not a damn thing that Sam – or himself – can do or say to change that fact. But Sam was right, he’s an adult now, perfectly capable of making his own choices – and could easily fight Dean off if he wasn’t one-hundred percent into this.  
  
Inhaling deeply, forcing all other thoughts from his mind, Dean closes the distance to the bed, leaning on the mattress with one knee, his hand sliding over Sam’s chest, resting on his heart, as he leans down to kiss him, good and thorough. Sam makes a happy noise in the back of his throat and brings his arm down, wrapping it around Dean’s shoulders, one hand palming the back of Dean’s head, the other still slowly, idly jerking his cock.  
  
“Dean,” Sam murmurs into the kiss, his name smeared against his lips, and Dean moans softly. He’s always been more than a little in love with the way Sam says his name like that, soft and breathy and full of love and need.  
  
“’m here,” he mutters back, not sure why, but having the overwhelming urge to reassure Sam once again. “Right here, baby. Not goin’ anywhere.”  
  
Sam sighs softly and lets go of his leaking, blood-thick length and wraps that arm around Dean as well, his palm sliding over the small of his back as they continue to kiss, slow and deep, taking their time like they’ve rarely done since the beginning and all this was so new and fragile and scary as fuck.  
  
Dean finally crawls the rest of the way onto the bed and drops the lube next to Sam’s hip before settling down against his brother’s side again. This time, Sam’s the one who pulls away from the kiss first, his chest heaving and sweat already starting to break out along his tan, baby-soft flesh.  
  
Dean dips his head and slides his lips over Sam’s jaw, down his neck – pausing to bite at Sam’s Adam’s apple hard enough to leave a mark. Sam gasps and tosses his head back, arching against the pillow, offering up the beautiful, long line of his neck. Dean takes the unspoken hint and bites down again, smirking when Sam shivers. For as much as Sam likes to bite, he fucking _loves_ to _be_ bitten even more.  
  
Dean forces himself to move on – there’s _a lot_ of Sam to cover after all – nipping and kissing and licking his way down to Sam’s chest, pausing to tease each nipple in turn. Sam thrashes beneath him, his fingers once again digging bruise-tight into Dean’s shoulders. Dean moves back up and kisses Sam again, slow and gentle, calming and soothing, and Sam eventually settles down, lust-blown, stormy-  
green eyes wide and blinking slowly up at him.  
  
“Are you tryin’ to kill me?” Sam rasps.  
  
“Not at all,” Dean chuckles.  
  
“Then get on with it,” Sam half-demands, half-begs. “Please, Dean. Want you, so much.”  
  
“I’m right here. You got me.”  
  
Sam licks his lips and tightens his hold around Dean’s shoulders, arching up against him, his cock smearing against Dean’s hip. Sam hisses and does it again, somehow managing to give Dean his best puppy eyes. “Wanna feel you, Dean,” he whispers, nipping at Dean’s bottom lip. “Wanchu inside me.”  
  
Dean groans, his own hips thrusting forward of their own accord. He’s always been vocal in bed but it’s rare for him to get Sam to that point where the dirty talk seems to pour out of him. It’s one of the hottest things Dean’s ever heard. Sam bites down on his own bottom lip, his eyes widening even more, and slides his leg over Dean’s hip, rutting against him. “Need you,” he breathes.  
  
Sam fights dirty. Dean has always known this. Hell, Dean’s the one who taught him to. And he’s pulling out every little trick that he’s learned over the last decade, all the little things that he does that drives Dean crazy and makes him want to pin Sam to the mattress and fuck him senseless.  
  
Sam’s cock is nestled in the cut of Dean’s hipbone, pre-come smearing against his skin, as he rocks slightly back and forth. Dean’s pretty well ready to get on with things as well, but he’s still going to go at his own pace and there are a few things that he wants to do – needs to do – before he can get on with the main event.  
  
Sam growls when Dean pulls away from him this time and it sends a fresh wave of heat straight down Dean’s spine, pooling in his stomach and balls. Fuck, but that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.  
  
“Flip over for me,” Dean commands against Sam’s ear, swirling his tongue around the shell. “Hands and knees, baby.” Sam’s cock twitches out a fresh burst of pre-come and he scrambles to obey, steadying himself as Dean asked, his ass high in the air. Dean moves over and kneels between his brother’s spread legs, leaning against his back, biting down hard on the back of Sam’s neck just to hear him cry out. The powerful muscles of Sam’s back are trembling beneath Dean’s hands and tongue as he moves down Sam’s spine, stopping just above the perfect swell of his ass. He palms both muscular globes and pulls them apart, groaning at the sight of Sam’s furled entrance.  
  
Sam moans loudly when Dean drops down and licks a stripe from the back of his balls all the way up the cleft. Dean groans and presses closer, circling the tip of his tongue around Sam’s rim, chasing that familiar, musky taste of his brother. Sam’s trembling beneath him, his hips thrusting forward and backward slightly, moaning almost consistently. Dean’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass and pull his cheeks apart more, desperate to get as close as he humanly can. When the tight muscle starts to loosen, Dean thrusts his tongue inside and Sam’s arms collapse, his chest hitting the mattress.  
  
“Dean,” Sam breathes. “Fuck… Dean. God, more. Please.” And as much as Dean would like to keep drawing this out, his patience has officially hit its peak. He shifts his hold enough to sink two fingers into Sam, pausing just long enough for Sam to take a breath before pumping them in and out, twisting and spreading, rubbing against Sam’s prostate. Sam fucking _keens_ , thrusting back against his tongue and fingers, twisting his hips, trying to take Dean deeper.  
  
In the end, he doesn’t spend as much time prepping Sam as he probably should. It’s been months after all. But Sam has always been an impatient little shit, especially when he wants something badly enough. Dean’s eyes widen in surprise when Sam pulls his hips away and turns around, wrapping him arms around Dean and practically throwing him onto the mattress. “’m ready,” Sam pants in response to Dean’s quirked eyebrow and questioning look. “And I wanna ride you.”  
  
Dean moans like a bitch in heat and scoots up so that his back is against the headboard, his hands grabbing Sam’s waist when his brother throws one leg over his hips. Sam’s gaze never leaves his as he reaches over and grabs the lube, quickly slicking up two of his own fingers.  
  
“My turn to tease,” Sam whispers right before his arm disappears behind his own back. Dean can’t see what he’s doing from this angle, but he can guess, and somehow the flexing of Sam’s arm and shoulder is hotter than actually seeing it firsthand. Sam’s hips jerk and his head falls back slightly, his cock twitching up against his abs. Dean’s hands slide down over his hips, to his thighs, lightly massaging the straining muscles from where Sam’s working to hold himself up. “Can’t wait to feel you,” Sam confesses softly, his head slowly coming back up so that his eyes lock with Dean’s again. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good.”  
  
Dean moans in reply and grabs Sam’s hips again. He slides one hand back, his fingers slipping down the cleft of Sam’s ass, feeling where his own fingers are thrusting in and out of him, making sure he’s slick. Dean stares up at Sam as he pushes one of his thick fingers inside along with the two Sam’s using. Sam’s eyes widen then slam closed. After a few more moments, Sam pulls away, panting harshly and quickly, efficiently, slicks Dean up. “Ok, ‘m ready,” he mutters. Dean holds the base of his cock steady as Sam sinks down, a moan tearing from them both through the whole long, slow slide.  
  
Sam doesn’t stop until Dean’s buried to the hilt, Sam’s ass flush with his thighs. His chest is heaving and his hair is hanging in sweat-damp waves, some of the strands sticking to his cheeks and forehead. It always worries him when Sam does that but he knows how much his brother actually enjoys the stretch of that first intrusion, the slight burn of being stretched wide around Dean’s cock.  
  
Sam’s trembling slightly against his chest, his eyes closed, his face contorted with that bewildering mixture of pleasure and pain. Dean’s slides his hands up his brother’s sweat-slick back, tangling one hand into a loose fist in his hair. “You ok, baby boy?” Even though he’s pretty sure that he knows the answer, he has to ask.  
  
Sam moans softly and opens up his eyes. “’m good,” he rasps. He clenches his inner muscles slightly and Dean bites back a moan of his own. “Feels amazin’,” Sam adds softly. “Feel so big, so full…” Sam’s pretty much just murmuring senselessly at this point but Dean knows he’s not just trying to stroke Dean’s ego.  
  
The first slow roll of Sam’s hips has Dean’s eyes rolling back up into his head, the sensation of tight, wet, heat making him want to tackle Sam onto his back and pound him into the mattress. Instead, he clutches Sam’s hips tighter and mostly lets his brother control the rhythm, barely thrusting up into him until Sam picks up the pace.  
  
Sam drapes his long arms over Dean’s shoulders, the tips of his fingers gently, idly, playing with the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. “C’mere, baby,” he murmurs, tilting his head up toward Sam, silently asking for a kiss.  
  
Sam licks his lips and leans down, their chests and stomachs pressing together same as their lips, and Dean shudders at the feeling of being pressed together as close as possible from lips to chests to hips. Sam moans softly when Dean licks across the seam of his lips, parting them automatically. Dean keeps the pace of the kiss slow and languid, same as the speed of Sam’s hips. They pull away at the same time, eyes locking together again, hundreds of unspoken words passing between them.  
  
Sam sits up slightly and balances himself with his palms pressed against Dean’s chest, his fingertips just barely digging into his collarbones and picks up the pace. It’s still not as wild and frantic as it usually is but Dean doesn’t care. That’s not what he really wants right now anyway. He slides one hand down Sam’s ass, feeling the muscle clench and relax with every roll of Sam’s hips, groaning softly at how undeniably sexy that is. Sam’s eyes glitter in the dim light in the room and Dean honestly doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more beautiful in his life. Sam is gorgeous under normal, everyday circumstances but like this, flushed and sweaty, his hair and eyes a little wild, tall and strong and _beautiful_ , writhing in Dean’s lap, he’s fucking mesmerizing.  
  
“Dean,” Sam whispers, his right hand pressing harder against Dean’s chest, right over his heart. For all that Sam is more in touch with his feelings, and the more open of the two of them, sometimes it’s hard even for him to put words around the enormity of this thing between them.  
  
Dean reaches up and presses his hand against Sam’s chest as well. “I know,” he breathes. “Me too, Sammy.”  
  
Sam sits up completely and tosses his hair out of his face, his thighs flexing as he starts bouncing slightly on Dean’s cock. Dean likes the view but misses the weight of Sam against his chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him like a hot summer day. Sam cries out softly with the slight change of angle, his eyes fluttering closed for a few moments, his lips parting slightly. Dean’s still for a moment, just watching Sam take what he wants, before rolling his hips up to meet each of his brother’s downward thrusts.  
  
Sam’s eyes flutter open again, big and dark, looking at Dean imploringly, silently asking for something. Dean’s usually pretty damn good at figuring out what Sam wants or needs but right now, he still feels slightly out of touch with his brother, their bond not having snapped fully back into place yet.  
  
“What?” he asks softly.  
  
“More,” Sam breathes. “Dean… Need more.”  
  
Dean nods and sits up, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist. Sam’s eyes widen and he lets out a surprised grunt when Dean tips them forward, laying Sam out on his back, smoothly thrusting right back into him. Honestly, Dean’s a little surprised himself that he managed to pull that move off.  
  
Sam moans brokenly when Dean picks up a rhythm right off the bat, hooking one arm under one of Sam’s legs, leaning forward so his weight is resting on his other arm next to Sam’s head. The position nearly bends Sam in half and he knows that he won’t be able to hold it for long without hurting Sam but he makes the most of the time he has. He snaps his hips, changes the angle just enough to know that he’s hitting Sam’s prostate, Sam’s cock rubbing against his abs on every thrust.  
  
“Fuck,” Sam groans, head pressing back against the mattress, one hand gripping Dean’s bicep, blunt nails digging into his flesh, the other holding onto the back of Dean’s neck. Sam strains to pull up enough to kiss him and Dean can feel the trembling in Sam’s leg.  
  
Dean kisses him good and thorough for a few moments then pulls back, lifting his weight off his arm, settling more on his knees, and hooks his other arm under Sam’s other leg as well. Sam mewls and slides his legs up himself until they’re draped over Dean’s shoulders. They both moan when Dean pushes in again, deep and hard. He leans forward just enough to plant his hand on the mattress next to Sam’s chest, lifting his ass off the bed, bending him just enough to be on the edge of uncomfortable.  
  
The time for slow and sweet is over. Dean’s blood is buzzing through his veins, his pulse pounding in his temples and his heart feels like it’s going to burst right out of his chest. He’s getting close, way too close, but he pretty much knows that Sam is right there with him.  
  
“Touch yourself,” he growls, hand not supporting his weight gripping Sam’s hip hard enough to bruise.  
  
Sam bites down hard on his bottom lip, a moan punched from his chest when he wraps his hand around his own angry-red, leaking length. “Not gonna last,” he half-warns, his tone low and deep.  
  
“’s ok,” Dean drawls. “Me too. _Fuck_ , feel so Goddamn good, baby boy.”  
  
Sam hums in agreement and starts stroking himself harder, faster, in time with Dean’s hips thrusting into him. Sam moans when he twists his wrist and squeezes tight just under his shiny-wet cock-head, just the way Dean does it himself, the way he taught Sam to do it all those years ago. The thought sends a dirty little thrill down Dean’s spine and he leans over more, just enough to crash their lips together again. He can feel Sam’s knuckles dragging against his abs, quicker and harder, feels Sam’s whole body tense.  
  
Sam pulls away from the kiss with a ragged gasp, his back bowing slightly off the mattress as he cries out Dean’s name. He watches Sam’s face twist in pleasure for a moment then drops his gaze down between them, watches as Sam milks the last bursts of his sticky-wet release out, pearly strands landing on his quivering stomach.  
  
It’s all too much and Dean gets maybe a dozen more sloppy, erratic thrusts in before his own climax hits. He growls Sam’s name, pushing in as far as he can possible go, erupting deep inside his brother over and over, the force of it dimming his vision slightly.  
  
Sam’s legs slide off his shoulders and flop bonelessly to the mattress. Dean collapses forward, his head pillowed on his brother’s chest, his mostly still hard cock buried inside him, the slight aftershocks from Sam making him shiver. It’s quiet for a few long moments, just the sound of their combined breathing and Dean thinks that he could honestly fall asleep, right here, just like this.  
  
Sam’s hand slides down his back and he shifts slightly beneath Dean, huffing out a soft sigh. Dean picks his head up enough to look at his brother, smiling at the blissed-out expression on Sam’s face. His nose is wrinkled slightly though and Dean knows that look. “What?” he urges when Sam doesn’t immediately say anything.  
  
“Nothin’, just…” Sam sighs again and a sheepish smile curls up his lips. “As much as I love you being there, you’re gettin’ kinda heavy and I’m gettin’ a leg cramp.”  
  
Dean chuckles softly and leans up to press a kiss to the side of Sam’s lips. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he pulls his hips back, finally pulling out, and Sam hisses softly. They turn around slowly so that they’re facing the right way on the mattress and Dean pulls Sam into his arms as soon as they settle down. He catches just a brief glimpse of Sam’s smile before his head hits Dean’s shoulder.  
  
It’s still quiet between them but it’s not uncomfortable like it has been for months. Dean’s sated and a little sleepy and stupidly glad that things seem like they’re actually going to be okay. He’s not delusional enough to believe that this solved everything, knows that they’re still going to bicker and argue, and there are still wounds that need to heal, but it at least doesn’t feel so hopeless now.  
  
Sam pinches his side, looking up with a grin when Dean yelps. “Dude, what the hell?”  
  
“Stop,” Sam says simply. He snuggles closer and tucks his face in against Dean’s neck, lips brushing softly over his still sweat-slick skin, the sensation making him shiver a bit.  
  
He feels like there’s more that needs to be said, that he _should_ say, but he can’t seem to get them out of his mouth. So, he takes his brother’s advice and snuggles down further into the mattress and Sam’s embrace, turns and presses a kiss to the top of Sam’s head. “Night, Sammy.”  
  
A soft snore is his only answer.


End file.
